


rai(g)n

by Excelsior10



Series: Incarnadine [4]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: ALRIGHT FOOLS LETS GO, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Fascism, I tagged it as Explicit and I meant that shit, PTSD, Period Typical Attitudes, Physical Abuse, SO, ain't no party like a Shelby party, basically if you can put "explicit" in front of it it's in here, brief canon compliant animal cruelty, explicit violence, for action, god is a woman and her name is Tessa Reilly, slow burn but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 105,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excelsior10/pseuds/Excelsior10
Summary: "Tonight, we learn of monsters."In which everything explodes.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Tessa Reilly
Series: Incarnadine [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538224
Comments: 782
Kudos: 250





	1. you should see me in a crown

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a returning reader, HELLO I HAVE MISSED YOU TERRIBLY, and if you are new, welcome to the clusterfuck.  
> Chapter titles are taken from songs in the playlist for this story, which I spend entirely too much time curating, which I will link here: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UgJilzeGBskaAYxlKyxzH
> 
> as well as in the notes below. If you enjoy this story, tell me, if you hate me for this story, tell me that too, I have an obsessive love for all comments and feedback, as many of you are well aware. Alright, I think that's more than enough setup, God knows you've waited long enough for this shit, so let's fucking get into it, yeah?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bite my tongue, bide my time  
> Wearing a warning sign  
> Wait 'til the world is mine  
> Visions I vandalize  
> Cold in my kingdom size  
> Fell for these ocean eyes
> 
> Count my cards, watch them fall  
> Blood on a marble wall  
> I like the way they all  
> Scream  
> Tell me which one is worse  
> Living or dying first  
> Sleeping inside a hearse  
> I don't dream
> 
> If you think I'm pretty...  
> You should see me in a crown  
> I'm gonna run this nothing town  
> Watch me make them bow one by, one by, one  
> One by, one by, one

“Shelby Company Limited welcomes Tessa Reilly as a member of the Board of Directors, occupying the position of Non-Executive Director, with terms and responsibilities outlined in this form,” Tommy’s voice rolled out, low and fast, professional. His hands were clasped behind his back at the head of the table, but he reached out in front of him to select the document and waved it briefly, the papers fluttering in the air. A few of the members of the table glanced at Tessa, but most were focused on Tommy, focused on bigger issues than her employment. He was wearing a suit, in a dark herringbone gray, but not a tux, and Tessa tried to tell herself this was just like any other day, any other family meeting. Polly smiled at her quickly, like the flashing grin of a shark. Tessa found herself unable to smile back. Her face felt stiff, cracked like ancient Roman marble.

“All in favor of establishing Tessa Reilly as Non-Executive Director, please raise your hands,” Tommy said, and palms went up around the table, and now the eyes did lock on her, “Good. She will now review and sign it, and her position will be legitimized.” Tommy handed her the forms, his flickering eyes not meeting hers, as preoccupied as the rest of his family. Michael caught her gaze before she looked down, jerking his chin slightly and mouthing _“Third page”_ silently. She ruffled the papers, scanned them quickly. In a precise font, it read; “Salary: 50,000 pounds per market year, with additional bonuses and allowances dependent on Company situation”. She scoffed softly in amusement. 

“Now that that’s out of the way, we can-,” 

“Tommy?” 

“What?” he asked, glancing quickly down with a flash of blue irises as she tapped on his elbow. 

“Do you have a pen?” 

“Do I- yes,” he said, shortly, reaching into his pocket, but she only smirked at him, raising her eyebrows down at the huge sum in front of her and then back up, and when he saw it, the crease in his brow evened slightly. He handed the expensive ballpoint pen to her, and she signed with a steady hand. _This was the easy part,_ she reminded herself. He continued. 

“We can discuss strategy for tonight. The plan is set, and those of you who have roles to play have been _thoroughly_ educated on your duties, but we’ll fucking go over it all again anyway, because if one person slips up, it could mean the rest of our skins. Arthur, you start.” 

Arthur scratched his mustache absently, clearing his throat loudly. Polly rolled her eyes. Tessa reached for a drag of Michael’s smoke without turning her head to look at him, her fingers pinching around the cigarette as he passed it to her. 

“Me and the boys- that is, me and Charlie, Curly, Isiah and Jerimiah, and them men you chose, Tom,” he cleared his throat again, and Tommy blinked, managing to make even that look impatient. Arthur continued haltingly. “We show up early, say it’s to help with preparations. Lay the smoke grenades, rig them to go off. Get the Germans out, get them exposed. At eight I’ll leave, say it’s to deal with a commotion at one of our pubs. Go with John to the warehouse where we’ve got the plane. Ten minutes away by air. The bombs’ll go off at exactly nine, and I’ll be fucking there. Yeah. And I’ll be fucking ready,” he said, rocking back and forth, shaking his head. His fists were clenched tight. 

“Save it for the party, Arthur,” Tommy said, softly, and it took Tessa four entire seconds before she realized he had spoken in Romani, and she had _understood,_ or understood enough to piece it together _._ In comparison to this revelation, her ridiculous salary seemed a trifling matter. She smiled widely now, breaking the plaster. The family spoke mostly in Romani when they were together, especially Esme and John, and Polly would often mumble in it, half under her breath, but it was mostly Tommy who she had gleaned some of it from, whispers in his sleep, undertones to horses, planning takedowns with his relatives over the telephone. 

“John?” Tommy prompted. 

“Drive Arthur to the warehouse at eight,” John rattled off, like he did with the bets on the horses. “Drop him off, come right back so as to not cause suspicion. Deploy the bombs at nine. Make sure Solomons and his fucking Jews actually come through with their side of the deal.” 

Tommy nodded smartly. His dark hair shone under the early light of the morning sun through the windows. 

“Polly?”

“Locate the German leaders. Spread the word, and isolate him, or them, if I can.” 

“Good. Michael?” 

“Cause a scene,” Michael said, lips thin. “Keep it coming at them from all sides, so they don’t know when or where we’ll spring.” Tessa handed him his smoke back, practicing the trick he had taught her. 

“Finn and Tessa,” Tommy said, a warning note in his tone. 

“Run and hide,” Tessa said, dryly, incredibly irritated at being lumped in with the youngest brother, who she had only interacted with on a handful of occasions, and whose youthful face glowed with trepidation across from her, looking unsure what he was doing at the table.

“That’s fucking right,” Tommy said, pointing at her with the unlit cigarette in his hand. The crystal tumbler and array of dazzling glasses sparkling on the table in front of him. “We’ll have men at all exit points, multiple escape routes, cars ready to take you to seven different safehouses. I don’t know which one you’ll end up at, but neither will they. We have decoys, fifteen vehicles to take you away. Neither of you will be without an assigned guard for the entirety of the night.” 

“A _guard?”_ Tessa asked, crossing her arms. “I can fucking handle myself, Thomas.” 

“You’ll take the guard or you won’t go,” Tommy said, sharply, his vibrant eyes locking on hers. She glared at him. 

“Who?” she snapped. 

“Benson,” he said, like he was already brushing off her distaste. “Now-,” 

“Tom?” Isiah asked, hand in the air like they were attending an English lesson, and she wondered where he had learned it from, if he had ever gotten an education at all. 

“ _What?”_ Tommy snapped, patience run out. 

“Who’ll be on the gun?” 

“What _gun?”_ Polly lashed out, and Tessa agreed with her. 

“On the Bristol,” Michael supplied, and Tommy shot him a whithering look. “There’s a mounted machine gun on the back.” Michael did not turn from Tommy’s angry stare, his face impassive, and Tessa mentally applauded him. 

“Well, one of the boys will, I’m sure-,” Polly began, referring to the Blinders. They all called them “The Boys” in polite company, something that Tessa had a feeling would happen quite a few times during the night. 

“No,” Tommy said, pausing to light his cigarette like he was trying to put off his next words. He inhaled with a short breath. “I’ll be on the gun.” 

“ _Tommy,”_ Tessa began, the word hissing through her teeth, and Polly protested with a much louder, “Thomas, are you _trying_ to get yourself _killed,”_ but Tommy waved both of them off, smoke trailing from his dancing fingers. 

“I wasn’t going to tell you about that part,” he said, shooting another glance at Michael like a bullet, but Michael only shrugged, strong jaw set. “But it’s too late to change the plan now. It has to be me. None of the other men can operate heavy artillery.” 

“‘Cept fucking me,” John said, grinding his teeth, and Tessa counted him as another ally on her side. Tommy ticked his chin and exhaled a dry grey stream. 

“I need you on the ground,” Tommy said, his voice leaving no room for argument. A tense silence fell over the table and seemed to bounce off its gleaming surface, the members gathered around it all wearing variously stoney expressions. Tommy coughed, quick and unconcerned, then stacked the papers sitting benignly in front of Tessa. He reached down and unplugged the tumbler, the stopper clinking slightly, sounding like tinkling wealth. 

“Now,” he said, “and lastly, a toast. Everyone take a glass.” 

Polly pursed her lips but accepted her serving of amber whisky, Arthur held his hand out eagerly, Michael was measured and silent. The glasses were passed around, two fingers of the whisky measured into each, even for Finn. Isiah and Jerminah stood shoulder to shoulder, Charlie leaned lazily against the wall a few feet away. Tommy cleared his throat. 

“To Tessa. And to the Shelby's. Te vestinel el Peaky Blinders,” he said. They raised your glasses, and some muttered, “Long live the Peaky Blinders,” back. “May God be with you. And if he isn’t, well… I suppose you’ll fight harder not to die if you know you're headed to hell.” He drained his glass, and they all followed him. The whisky burned down Tessa's throat and into her chest like lit gasoline. 

  
  


Tommy and Tessa stood huddled in the doorway, speaking in hushed tones but with clipped words, the top of her head coming up to his chin. Tommy was pulling on his coat, cutting a handsome figure in the tux he had already donned, and Tessa’s face was tilted back to stare him down, which he seemed unaffected by. But his voice and face softened when he saw the expression on hers, a desperate kind of fear, her eyes wide and fists clenched. He muttered something that, knowing him, was likely meant to be comforting and wasn’t at all, then a quiet, “I love you,” Polly couldn't remember the last time she had watched his mouth form those words, a kiss on the side of Tessa's frowning mouth. And then he was yanking open the door and he was gone, silhouetted and then swallowed by the momentarily blinding light like an ascending archangel. Polly crossed the floor, her heels clacking against the wood and echoing off the walls. 

“So you haven’t told him, then?” she asked, and Tessa’s hair shook with the movement of her head, the shimmering red catching the golden rays. 

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, and if Polly hadn’t had so many years of mothering only boys as sharp as broken beer bottles, she might have put her arm around her shoulders. She did not. Instead, she said, 

“When you’re ready.” 

Tessa sighed, a bit haltingly, like her lungs were rejecting the air. The sun caught on her eyelashes, tiptoed across her cupid’s bow. _Such a pretty little thing,_ Polly thought, with a rushing sense of dread. And then, _That baby won’t last a year even if it’s given one._

“You know, Tessa,” she said, trying to work out her phrasing, trying not to horrify the child any more than she had to, but wanting to make her message clear. “Even once today is over, even if we all survive it… Even then, it won’t really be over.” 

Tessa stared out through the slender windows at Tommy’s car, disappearing down the drive in a plume of dust. She did not reply. 

“Whatever you decide,” Polly said, and touched her gently with the backs of her knuckles across a soft cheek, pale as ivory. Tessa blinked and remained silent, her rosy lips pressed together like if she let any words through, the fear would creep out with them. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luv u guys <3 xoxo


	2. Sour Diesel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walks in the place, hands on her waist  
> Gun on her thigh, big shooter game  
> She did this before, murdered to gain  
> Promised her ma she won't kill again
> 
> She burn, she burn, she burn  
> Like Sour Diesel

“Tommy!” A distinctively brash voice called out from behind him, the rough cadence making his name sound like, "Tahm-y", and Tommy was already picturing him, arms held out, palms up, jovial leer plastered on, before he had turned around to confirm his mental image. Alfie Solomons was in a suit, or something close to it, but no tie, which was unsurprising, and a long, heavy overcoat, even indoors, which surprised Tommy less. To Alfie, the more options for weapon concealment the better, and etiquette be damned. 

“How _are_ you doing, mate?” Alfie asked, as if being provided with an answer to that question was his sole mission in life. Tommy ticked his head. 

“Not bad, Alfie,” he said, just to say something, because his own emotional state barely registered on his mental list of priorities at any moment, especially this one. He took out his cigarette case and glanced around the room, which was swarming with preparations. Caterers, designers, florists, Tommy didn’t actually remember what half of the people there were meant to be doing, and he didn’t much care. John and Arthur had vetted all of them thoroughly, and if he couldn’t trust his brothers, he might as well do the Germans a solid and take himself out of the game, save them the trouble. 

“Mmph,” Alfie grunted, perhaps in displeasure, but he grunted at nearly everything, so it was often hard to tell with him what they were meant to signify. 

“Glad to see you,” Tommy said, then added, “Here,” with a sideways glance, and Alfie waved him off with hands like dustbin lids. 

“Ah, fuck off, Tommy, you knew I was coming.”

“Did I?” Tommy asked, perching a cigarette between his lips and cupping his hand around the lighter, the flame briefly hot against his fingers. 

“Yeah, you fucking did, you threatened my life and limb on no uncertain terms in the event of my absence, didn’t you.” Sometimes Alfie spoke like a businessman, sometimes like a prophet, sometimes like a man huddled against the mud walls of a trench. 

“Huh. Can’t seem to recall that part, meself.” 

Alfie snorted, which was just a slight variation of his grunts. He scratched his beard idily, standing by Tommy’s side, both of them watching a rather small man struggle with a rather huge arrangement of flowers, which was teetering precariously, petals shivering off with the disturbance and dropping to the wooden warehouse floor. Tommy and Alfie stood silently for a moment, observing the struggle. 

“Are you going to... offer to help him with that?” Alfie muttered under his breath, his accent and odd speech pattern dropping syllables in some places and adding them back on in others, and Tommy sucked in a drag through his nose. 

“No.” 

“Good, cause I fucking ain’t either. Feel like we should leave the poor fellow to his very devoted attempts, though.” Alfie said, but neither of them moved, watching the achingly slow progress of the stunning flower array, and Tommy tossed Alfie an amused glance. 

“So,” Alfie said, crossing his hands over his cane, and Tommy instinctively knew to prepare himself for whatever was coming, some update on the Jewish forces, some change to the plan, new information, but Alfie just said, “You letting your bird take part in this very glorious sort of spectacle?” 

Tommy rolled his eyes, but as they were both staring out in front of themselves at the man with the vase, who was now attempting to sort of wiggle it to its final destination, Alfie did not see it. 

“Tessa will be here, yes.” 

“Ahh,” Alfie said, nodding slowly, a grin spreading over his patchy face, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the corners creasing, Tommy could see it even in his periphery. “Tessa, then, is it? Nice name, that.” 

“Give it a rest, Alfie,” came Tommy’s reply, sent from over his shoulder, because he had already begun walking away. 

  
  
  


Tessa tapped out a white line from a little blue bottle, the glass smooth in her hand. Some of the powder rose into the air in a little puff, and she pressed her fingers to the side of her nose and snorted it off the vanity, straightening and brushing the residue away, ignoring the small sound of a throat clearing behind her. She sniffed and turned to the maid, a girl younger than she was, with mousey, dirty-blonde hair pulled back from her face, and a staunch black and white uniform. 

“What’s your name?” Tessa asked, picking up her necklace from the counter, which glittered and dripped in diamonds, rows of five carats sparkling their tiny dots of light against her skin. She had found it beside her that morning, in a sleek velvet case, along with a note on a monogrammed piece of parchment that read, _Stole you some stars. Love, TS._

“Sarah,” the girl replied cautiously, moving forward to clasp the choker around Tessa’s neck. The weight of the stones rested on her throat like the press of Tommy’s fingers. 

“Alright, Sarah,” Tessa said, deliberately choosing that moment to strap the holster onto her exposed thigh, the black leather and silver buckle cold against her, not even wearing a slip, for accessibility, just her underthings, “You should know that if I find out you told Thomas about this, I will get you fired from this house. You understand?” The maid nodded quiveringly. She would still tell him, Tessa knew, a vague threat would not be enough. No one in their right mind would dare undermine Thomas Shelby. Tessa never had been quite in her right mind, and the snow electrified her veins. “And then I will get your family fired from their jobs. So let’s just keep this between you and me, yes?” 

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do, for now. Sarah pursed her lips, perhaps debating her response, then shook her head and said, with a shocking amount of defiant righteousness in her tone, “Do you really expect Master Shelby to do what you tell him to?” 

Tessa scoffed at the “Master Shelby” bit, then smiled. “Yes, love. That’s exactly what I expect.” She considered telling Sarah off for speaking to her in such a way, and decided it hardly mattered. She took a semi-auto from the counter, a .32 ACP Beholla with a seven-round mag, and holstered it. The maid’s eyes followed the motion. “Now grab my dress, would you?” 

  
  


She slid into the back seat of the car, grateful that the smooth leather did not cause friction against the velvet of her dress, which twinkled with miniscule shimmers interwoven in the hunter green fabric. She tapped on Benson’s shoulder with a gloved hand, and he turned back to look at her from the driver’s seat, his dark brown hair, a warmer shade than Tommy’s, combed neatly for the occasion. 

“We’re going to this address,” Tessa said, handing him a folded piece of paper. He read it in a brief glance, then snapped his eyes back up to hers. 

“Why?” he asked, his tone sharp. She ran her bottom lip through her teeth, stared at him. 

“I have to pick up a new hat,” she said, and he interrupted her with a dismissive noise. 

“Don’t waste your breath, Tess. Why?” 

She crackled her knuckles, an impulse she usually did a better job of overcoming. 

“Are you married?” she asked, after a pause, and he looked a bit nonplussed. 

“No,” he said, and then, hesitatingly, his eyes sliding away from her face at the outline of Arrow House past the windows of the Bentley, the back of which read _Shelby Company Ltd._ in proud, flowing script. “I was.” 

Tessa wasn’t sure if she was meant to ask, but supposed that if he didn’t want to tell her, he was under no obligation to. 

“What happened?” she said, and his eyes squinted slightly, still focused on a point in the distance.

“She died. In childbirth,” he said, not shortly but still succinct, and Tessa blinked. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he raised the shoulder he was looking over at her with in a shrug. 

“It was a long time ago,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if she believed him. There was something else in his eyes other than grief, something like fear. She had never seen him afraid before. He was a man quick to smile, but quicker to let it fade, his deep brown eyes shadowed by his brow. “Where are we going?” 

Tessa smacked her lips. “We’re going to 38 Oakmoss Lane.” 

“Yes, but _why_?” 

“To kill someone,” Tessa said, taking out her bottle and unstoppering it. She knocked some onto the back of her hand, the snow white, as bright as her glove. 

“...Why?” Benson asked, again, sounding more confused than trepidatious. She took that as a good sign. 

“Because he’s the reason my best friend is dead, and it’s time for revenge. Bump?” She asked, holding her hand out to him. He shook his head and pinched his fingers between his eyes, mumbling,  
“Jesus Christ,” under his breath. Then, “Alright,” with a long-suffering sigh, like a father exhausted at dealing with his toddler’s antics, leaned down, squeezed his eyes shut, and inhaled. 

Guns really were shockingly expensive things. The old revolver he had managed to swindle a pawnshop owner out of had still put him back fifteen pounds, nearly a month’s wages, and then he had had to locate and then pay for the bullets, on top of that. He hadn’t been getting much target practice. Any, really. But it was the knowledge that comforted him, more than anything else. He told himself that’s all it was, a placebo to calm the fears of a danger that didn’t really exist. Thomas Shelby could not touch him without incriminating himself, without proving the truth of the article. Every day Jack checked the mail, to see if the headline of the newspaper would read;  _ Thomas Shelby, OBE, Put To Trial For Crimes _ . It had not, so far. But he was hopeful. His words would not go unnoticed, and the Shelby’s would not be allowed to continue on their path of destruction, wreaking havoc with their narcissism. Justice would be served. Someone knocked on his door. 

“Tessa,” he said, thoughougly shocked. Perhaps she had come to apologize. Perhaps his article had opened her eyes to the truth and she had finally confronted it, accepted that the path she was moving down was a ladder into hell. She blinked at him. She was wearing a evening gown in a deep emerald velvet, that draped in the front and flared out over her hips, under a long, black foxfur coat. Her hands were covered with white gloves, and her ears and neck were glittering with diamonds, her hair gathered elegantly off her neck. There was a blue bruise high on one porcelain cheek. 

“Hello, Jack. May I come in?” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sour diesel DOES burn bro


	3. A Little Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one calls you "honey" when you're sitting on a throne.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, skinny arms crossed, his usual slouch replaced by stiff-backed tension. Tessa inhaled. Her heart was thudding, but it felt distant, like it was held in a box somewhere, outside of her body. 

“I had some things I needed to ask you about,” she said, and his jaw clenched but he nodded, turned and led her into the sitting room, which was exceedingly modest, more so when compared to her lavish surroundings in Warwickshire. She felt a brief flash of regret and buried it. _What a waste of a life,_ she thought, and sat down on the threadbare chair he gestured at. He settled down across from her, spread his hands in a prompting, impatient gesture. 

“So?” he asked, and Tessa gazed into the unlit fireplace, charred and blackened from the soot. 

“Tessa?” he said, but she did not turn to him. A memory was replaying in her mind, the shadow of a girl in front of a raging fire, with tear tracks leaking from her blue eyes, staring into the demolition of an abandoned farmhouse where horrible, awful things had happened. She traced her hand over the outline of the gun on her thigh, concealed by the folds of her dress. 

“It’s just one question, really,” Tessa began, her tone flippant and bored. “And it’s such a little thing. Such a small moment. But I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s funny, how our minds do that.” 

“Are you feeling quite… stable?” Jack asked, but not like he cared about her wellbeing, more like he cared about his own, which was good. She didn’t want him to care about her, and he really ought to be concerned for himself, much more so than he was. Her lips twisted in a sardonic smirk. She shook her head slightly. 

“I told you once, ages ago, that Ada was the person Tommy cared most about in the world. That he loved her more than anyone or anything.” She halted, and pressed her lips together. Her fingers were trembling, the cocaine and adrenaline making her feel ignited from the inside, like she had electricity in her veins instead of blood, nausea welling in her throat. Jack shook his head, Tessa pressed on her thumb. 

“I don’t know what you’re-,” he started, but she cut him off. 

“Did you tell them that? Did they come to you, bribe you to print the address in the papers, assuming that we wouldn’t question it, question why you would want the world to know where we were-,” 

“Where _we_ were,” he scoffed. “Come on, Tessa, you’ll be done with this man in the underside of a year, you’re not _one_ of them-,” 

“I _am_ one of them!” She shouted, so incredulous she had to pause to stare at him, before saying, “I’m carrying his child.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up, stunned and scoffing, “You’re _what?”_

She blinked. Breathed. Pulled the high slit of her dress to the side, silently. “Answer the question, Jack.” 

“Tessa, Thomas Shelby is a murdering, cutthroat, mongrel gangster-,” to the end, he was blind. Blinded by ignorance, by hatred, by pride. Still with his eyes, but only physically, and that could change. If Tommy had his way, Tessa knew it would change. Tommy would hunt him down like an animal, but would show none of the mercy in a kill that he would give to a stag. Jack’s end would be messy and bloody, wrapped in the steel kiss of knives and the embrace of bare fists. Tessa didn’t want that, for Jack, but she realized now, staring at him, that it was also Tommy she didn’t want it for. Didn’t want him to find more resolution in the bloody crimson, find release in the sharp yank of tugging a soul from a body. 

“And still ten times the man you are,” she said, “a hundred times. A thousand.” Jack fell quiet, anger burning in his dull eyes. How had she ever thought, how had she ever convinced herself she could come back from Tommy’s inferno to this sputtering candle of a man? He closed his eyes briefly shut for a moment, as a reprieve, perhaps. She took out her gun. 

“You did it, didn’t you? You sold us out.” 

He cleared his throat, speaking evenly, as if giving a press conference. “A man approached us, and he told us that we would be protected in exchange for information. Said anyone known to be associated with the Shelby family was a target, but if we did him a favor, he would strike us from the list.” 

“Us?” Tessa repeated, her breath choking in her throat. 

“Lucy and I,” Jack said, his gaze flitting around. “The day after we met you and… him at the _Pall Mall_ building.” 

How odd it was, Tessa thought absently, to be discussing her old job. How odd how little she thought about it, though she supposed she had other things preoccupying her, as of late. 

“Lucy said no,” Jack said, with a heavy exhale. “And he hit her. Right across the face. But I was angry. So I told him I would tell him what he wanted if he left her alone. He said he didn’t want me to tell him anything, he wanted me to print it.”

“Don’t,” Tessa said, and her own voice sounded forigen to her ears, broken and burning. “Don’t fucking sit there and pretend you did that to protect Lucy.” 

Hot, hot tears were dripping down, splashing on her cheeks. Not for herself. Not for her own pain, but the pain of her family, the fucking empty, awful look on the brother’s faces at the funeral as they lowered the casket into the ground, Polly’s fingers shaking slightly on the neck of a bottle, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, eyes rolling back from the opium, saying he was meant to protect her, his little sister. Tessa’s hand clenched on the gun. “You did that to get back at him, you thought he stole your fucking toy and you thought that would be righteous payback-,” 

“I didn’t know that was going to happen!” Jack exclaimed, and Tessa cracked like a rock dropped from the stratosphere.

“ADA IS DEAD!” She shouted, spat, flung at him, wanted to get up and hit the expression off his face, the face that said, _Well, I had nothing to do with that,_ or maybe, _I didn’t mean for it to go this far,_ or maybe, maybe, _And the Shelby’s got what they deserved,_ and it was the last one that made Tessa cock the hammer. The window to her left was open, despite the cold, and the sounds of the city, pressed against the walls, smothering the sound. 

“Are you going to tell him?” Jack almost whispered, afraid, terrified, and the vengeance felt _good,_ good like an orgasm, good like the snow. “Tessa, he’ll kill me,” he was probably pleading. She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell a lot of things, at the moment, other than the fact that she had been right, and that she wanted him to bleed out on his floor. 

“He won’t get the chance. I’m going to kill you.” She kept her words precise. She leveled the gun. He looked like he wanted to be able to laugh, and couldn’t quite get it out. 

“What? Tessa, you’re not-,” _serious, sane?_ She didn’t wait for him to finish. She stood.

“Don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders,” she said, and he reached behind his back, got halfway to standing, pulling out a little, tarnished pistol, when she let out a sharp breath and shot him in the head. 

  
  
  


Tessa Reilly was generally lovely. Her hair, her presence, her smile, all quite lovely, if he was into that sort of thing. When she yanked the car door open that day, under a shockingly grey sky, for the first time, the word he would use to describe her was not lovely. It might have been akin to whatever word you would assign to a hare that had just escaped the hounds, body trembling, face white, eyes dazed. He had heard the gunshot. He knew. 

“Drive,” she said, and he put the car into gear. 

  
  


She had put on a brave face, or an attempted one, her skin so pale he could see very faint freckles across her cheeks, like there wasn’t a drop of blood under her skin. Then she started talking, like the words were vomit. 

“He just crumpled,” she said, and he glanced back in the rearview mirror, made sure they weren’t being tailed. They wouldn’t be. Whoever lived in that house wasn’t important enough to have a protection detail, or else he wouldn’t have lived in that house. “Like a bird hitting a window. It knocked him back into the fucking chair.” She gave a little, breathless laugh, or a dry sob, he pulled sharply around a corner, he didn’t even know where he was meant to be going, 

“God, the blood comes out so fast,” she muttered, and then she was saying, “Can you pull over, please,” she even added the “please,” an eternal lady, except when she shoved the back door of the Bentley open as the word vomit became actual vomit and she was leaning out onto the street as he came to a screeching halt. Benson pulled slowly into a less obtrusive corner, honking at a middle aged couple, who looked affronted until he waved his shotgun at them, and then their steps quickened comically quickly to out of the way. Tessa coughed and straitened from the side of the car, the bright flash of red hair all he could see of her from the front seat. 

“Alright?” he asked her, looking back over his shoulder. She waved a shaky hand. 

“I’m fine. It’s just the baby.” 

“The what?” Benson asked, more surprised that he had not heard this before now than he was by the news itself. Rumor travelled through the ranks of a gang like a bullet(points) in a magazine. 

“Yeah,” Tessa said, still sounding uneven, her voice distant and rough. He handed her his pocket square, because he didn’t care for the starchy, scratchy tux much anyway. She took it and wiped her mouth. “Found out yesterday. Tommy doesn’t know. I should probably stop telling people about it.” Then she chuckled. “But I suppose Jack doesn’t count now, because he’s dead. I know. I checked his pulse. Polly thinks I should get rid of it, I think. Michael… well. I hope I can trust Michael.” 

“You can. He’s a good lad.” Tessa nodded jerkily, like she didn’t believe him. “Are you telling Thomas tonight?” She looked at him like he was insane. 

“Tommy is going to be spending his evening in the cockpit of a fighter plane, apparently, manning a machine gun, so no, I don’t think I’ll be able to find the right moment before he gets shot from the sky.” Her attempt at sarcasm was unusually thin, like she couldn’t quite muster up the ability to joke about it. She massaged her hands together, and there were specks of blood on her fingers. He would tell her. Just not now. “Was pregnancy terrible? For your wife?” she asked, sounding scared. Sounding afraid. 

“The first bit, she said. I don’t know for sure, I wasn’t there for it.” 

“You… weren’t?” Tessa asked, brow furrowed, coming back down to herself. 

“Nah. Wasn’t mine.” 

“Ah,” Tessa said, and whatever you wanted to argue about her upbringing, she was rather accepting despite it. He didn’t know how accepting. “Well, I can’t critique you much for that, God knows its a wonder I’ve made it this far without having this happen already-,” 

“It was more of an… arrangement, between her and I,” Benson said, nerves jumping out and causing him to interrupt her rudely. He took the prompting of her blink, and continued, “That is to say, we weren’t…” 

“Well, that was kind of you. To help her raise another man’s child. Especially if you weren’t involved with her.” Tessa’s head tilted slightly, regarding him, reading between the lines. “Is there a particular reason why that situation benefited you?” 

He cleared his throat. The collar of the tux was tight against it. He nodded. “There was, yes. Sacrifice in the sake of... acceptability.” 

Tessa hummed, pulling on her white gloves. They would hide the blood, at least. She smiled at him a bit, in the rearview mirror. 

“Well, we must all make those,” she said, and he chuckled quietly. “Now come on, Benny, we’re late for the party.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of quotes from the show incorporated in here, did you find them all? probably tbh my readers never miss a beat. love you guys, hope you're staying safe and well with all the shit currently going down. at least some new material will help pass the time a bit!


	4. Ten Tonne Skeleton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where did you go?  
> Where did you run?  
> I can't erase what you've done  
> Let's burn the past, forget the truth  
> I'm still more than him, I'm still loving you
> 
> Cut loose like an animal  
> Fired out like a cannon ball  
> But I waited too long  
> Yeah, I waited too long  
> Got me high from a holy vein  
> Crashed down in a hurricane  
> Love has been here and gone  
> Love has been here and gone

10th of October, 1924, 6:32pm

“Where the _fuck_ is Tessa?” Tommy growled quietly in Arthur’s ear, before plastering on a quick smile for the approaching set of men, investors of some sort, probably. Tommy had called it a _party_ but it was actually a _grand opening_ that was really a _business opportunity to attract financial support._ Arthur thought that there were entirely too many important people at this particular event, whatever it may have been, than was entirely safe, given their plans for the night, but Tommy had assured him, when Arthur had brought it up, that their presence was necessary to make the ploy convincing. “Churchill said he might drop by,” Tommy had added to that, casually, before striding out of the room in that way he did once he had decided the conversation was over. Now, Arthur stood by his brother, whose gaze was sweeping back and forth from the entrance that Tessa was supposed to have swayed through before the doors had even officially opened. She had not. 

“I don’t bloody know, do I?” Arthur muttered back, before the approaching men were within earshot, one wearing a smart navy blue tuxedo, the other in glasses, the only characteristics Arthur had time to acknowledge before Tommy began to say, 

“That fucking woman fought me for _weeks_ to be here, and now she’s a fucking half hour late-,” at which point Tommy cut his own words off midsentence, completely changed gear, and said, pleasantly (or pleasantly for him, at least),

“Gentlemen. Good to see you. Arthur, these men are Edward and Richard Rockefeller, they’re here to see our motorcars.”  
“Rockefeller?” Arthur said, before he could stop himself, and then mentally berated his lost opportunity to discuss business. Tommy was always on him for that. “ _Whenever possible, talk about business. Talk your fucking head off about buisness, but never about the company.”_ By company he meant family, and by family he meant occupation, but since he had decided to attain legitimacy, he spoke of such things in other ways, in little verbal puzzles you had to unravel like a ball of yarn to get to his real meaning. Arthur was used to having to interpret Tommy’s various languages in all their stages of development. 

“Yes,” one of the men smiled, the one in the blue suit, Edward or Richard, Arthur hadn’t the faintest which, but he looked to be the elder. His monocle flashed, and Arthur found it quite stupid looking, no matter what his surname was. He should have stuck to regular frames, like his younger brother. “Mr. J. D. Rockefeller is our uncle.” 

If Arthur could have gotten away with it, he would have nudged Tommy, but he couldn’t, so he just nodded, exactly like he had when he was told Winston fucking Churchill might come by to see how their facist takedown was coming along, as if all of it was completely expected. 

“We have some prototypes on display, if you gentlemen would like to see them,” Tommy said, smooth and confident, and Arthur thought he could probably sell a Bible to a Buddhist if he wanted to. He steered the men across the floor, and the business talk began. 

  
  
6:32pm

Colindale had been a production hub during the war, with massive factories that billowed grey smoke against the grey skies and turned grey metal into grey death, guns and bombs and planes created just to take away, but now it was quiet, the forges unlit, the surrounding area full of parks and trees that were now growing scarce in the denser areas of London and growing darker in the descending evening covering the scene. That is, it would have been quiet, if the huge building that had once been an Airco factory had not been lit up like a beacon, other, smaller structures surrounding it like dark little sentries against its huge mass. Tessa had never seen the factory prior to Tommy’s acquisition of it, and so could not speak for its previous state, but compared to the shabby buildings surrounding it, shadowy and decrepit in the background, the largest, industrial building that had once housed military equipment and vehicles of all sorts now all but sparkled with light and noise. Cars were lined up outside the entrance, and Tessa realized belatedly that some of them were for show, blocked off with velvet ropes, with groups of people clustered around them, regarding them with critical eyes. Tessa’s fingers were slick inside her silk gloves. _How many of them are there? How many will there be? Will I know them when I see them, will I have no idea until it’s too late?_

“Full house tonight, it would seem,” Benson muttered, craning his neck, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, scoping out the landscape, as all veterans did. Tessa nodded vaguely, but he couldn’t see her from the driver’s seat anyway. She pulled out her little, nearly empty blue bottle, rattled it a bit. Her lungs were tight and painful, her heartbeats thud-thudding against them, she couldn’t get the stopper off, it kept slipping on her gloves. She tugged them off impatiently, then forced herself to stop and take as deep of an inhale as she could manage. Jack’s face swam behind her closed lids. She shot him in the eye, the last thing he ever saw. And he didn’t even see it. The bullet. You can’t see a bullet moving that fast. Just one moment, everything, the next, completely gone. That’s how she had wanted it. So quick he didn’t even see it coming. _Literally._ She smiled a bit at her little internal pun, then felt a bubbling, burning flash of shame, of regret, of _Who the fuck am I?_ before she pressed a finger to the side of her nose and snorted a thin white line, sniffed and then leaned down for another. She had just shot a man. A friend. She was a murder. She might as well. She was pregnant, on top of it all, but she had placed that truth behind a four-meter thick brick wall in her mind, and she was doing everything in her power to ensure the wall remained undisturbed. At least for one more night. She needed to get through one more night. Then she would find her sledgehammer. If she lived, she would deal with it. She had no intention of hiding in a safehouse with a fifteen year old boy, no intention of allowing her revenge to be stolen from her. She had taken some, and now she would take the rest, and she took Jack, the dark hole where his eye had been, the bright red blood running down his face, the shocked expression that flashed ever so briefly across his face as she pulled the trigger, the horrifying, absolute stillness in the place of a pulse under her fingers, and she put him behind the wall too. Tensed her hands against the firm, black leather of the seats, took a few more deep breaths, her lungs still protesting, her body trembling. She could see the tension in Benson’s shoulders, taking quick drags of a burning cigarette, and smirked a bit, cruelly amused at their sad attempts to prepare themselves. There was no way to prepare for something like this. She wondered if this was how the soldiers had felt, in the war, before going over the top. Before the whistles blew. She pitied them now more than she ever had before. She pitied her brother, and Tommy, and Arthur, and John, and Benson, but she found she did not feel any for herself. Despite how indescribably horrifying the terror was, she was somehow unafraid. She acknowledged it, stared it down, burnt it into powder and sniffed it off the seat of the car, which smelled of leather polish and petrol. She deserved to be afraid. Unlike the soldiers, she deserved it. The snow crashed across her like a slap in the face, a bullet to the head. She stopped caring about not being able to breathe, rubbed her nose to clean off the white dust, pulled out her .32, checked the magazine redundantly. As if she didn’t know how many rounds she had. She reloaded it, reholstered it, adjusted her dress. Smoothed her hair, checked her appearance in the rearview mirror in front of Benson, which reflected his pensive, honey brown eyes, the furrow in his brow. 

“Let’s go.” 

  
  


They stepped out of the vehicle, a valet took the car, and then she and Benson were standing together on the side of the dirt drive, staring at the entrance to the building, which was lit by an amber low from within, bright against the lowering twilight, the wide bay doors propped open by marble statues, the enormous area in front of the building, big enough to accomodate for massive delivery trucks of all kinds but currently clogged with cars worth more than most people’s annual salary, decadent colors draping their occupants, lavish dresses made of lace and pearls, the loose material flowing, suits forming a sharp, dark contrast against the rainbow of their partners. The younger crowd was arriving, their voices louder and rowdier than the low murmur of the older guests standing by the prototypes at the entrance, and Tessa and Benson blended into them as they approached the men stationed by the open bay door, four on either side, the massive door opening up into an even bigger hanger. Tessa wondered briefly why Tommy had bothered making a plan to get the Germans outside of the factory to take them down with the plane, when it looked like he might have been able to just fly the plane right through the doors inside the massive building instead. People craned their necks at her and Benson as they approached the doors, him for the peaky cap he pulled onto his head, the brim flashing silver, and her because people always did. A bearded doorman, bulky arms crossed, nodded first to Benson in a greeting and acknowledgement of the razors in his brim, ducking his own cap, which was unadorned, and then glanced at her. 

“Afraid I’ll need to see your invitation, love,” he said, and she could see the how tightly his suit was constricting his thick neck. She blinked up at him, pulling her silk-lined coat tighter over her shoulders to keep away the chill, to have something to do with her hands that wasn’t as conspicuous as fingering her gun. 

“I don’t have an invitation,” she said, rather sharply, her hands shaking like they were having little fits, and she tightened them into fists around her coat’s lapels. It didn’t stop the shakes. Her breaths echoed in her own ears, somehow, even over the many layers of noises in the cold night. Her heart pounded in her neck, in her chest, like Jack’s hadn’t. 

“I’m very sorry, miss, but there is a strict policy tonight. No invitation, no entry.” 

“Billy, it’s alright. She’s with us, she’s with me-,” Benson cut in, over Tessa’s irritated noise, but the massive doorman, Billy, was shaking his head, trepidation in his eyes, 

“I’m sorry, Benson, but you heard Mr. Shelby, no _entrance_ without _invitation-,”_

“Fucking Christ,” Tessa hissed, as the crowd behind them began getting more anxious, pressing up against their backs and craning their heads to inspect the holdup. Billy was tight-knuckling the red velvet rope, Benson muttering urgently in his ear, gesturing towards the building, and the snow and the terror, the horror, of what was to come, of what had already transpired, had Tessa clenching her gun in her hand before she was even truly conscious of it, ready to shoot and threaten and kill her own side just to get the fuck inside that goddamn takedown because then it would be _over,_ it would all be over and then maybe she could move on. _Fuck what Polly said,_ Tessa thought, _It will be over. I’ll end this myself if I must._ She cocked the gun, hands low and hidden, and then a rough voice called out from beyond the doors, coming closer with every step, 

“Oy! What the fuck are you doing, eh? Is that Tessa? Christ, get her the fuck in here, Tom’s going fucking mental-,” And Arthur Shelby was loping towards their tense queue, arms held out from his sides, wearing a black tuxedo and a scowl under his mustache. The other Blinders watched the interaction with stony silence, each looking rather relieved to not be the one about to be chastised. Billy’s eyes widened slightly. 

“Mr. Shelby, sir, I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know-,” 

Arthur scoffed. “Yeah, you didn’t know. You’re part of this organization and you don’t know who she is? Don’t you read the papers, hmm? Fuck off.” 

Benson’s lip twitched slightly, but otherwise he was completely silent beside her, wordlessly protective, as if Arthur’s presence hadn’t made that entirely unnecessary. As if it wasn’t unnecessary in the first place. She could handle her damn self. 

“Tessa Reilly,” Tessa said, to Billy, deliberately holstering her gun back on her thigh to free her hand to reach out to him, careful to keep her back to the line behind her. Handshakes were a man’s domain, but so were guns, and she was as good a shot as any of them, now. The crowd behind them murmured and shifted, watching the altercation with keen eyes but thankfully obstructed views. “Pleasure.” 

Billy accepted her handshake hesitantly, keeping his grip so weak it was almost slack, as if he was afraid of snapping her fingers. He probably could have. 

“Nice to… meet you,” he said, under his breath, eyeing the spot on her hip where the Beholla had disappeared under the heavy folds of her dress. Then, in a lower tone, as if determined to do his job, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s no weapons allowed on the premises.” 

“Good thing I’m not armed, then, no?” Tessa asked, brushing past him, copper hair shining and heels clicking mutedly against the worn wooden floor. Billy’s eyes jerked to Arthur, seeking backup, perhaps affirmation, but he should likely have known better. Arthur only grinned slightly manically and sidestepped to allow Tessa to slip by him and through the bay door, muttering something to her as she passed, his fingers of one hand fluttering against where it gripped his fist, glinting with rings, his knuckles split from his most recent bout in the makeshift indoor ring at Arrow House with John, giving a last, short scoff to Billy, then turning and following her inside, their silhouettes quickly swallowed by the press of bodies and lights. Benson tossed Billy a shrug, a tick of his head in acknowledgement of his exasperated expression. 

“You can whing to the boss about her if you want,” he clicked his tongue, “but I wouldn’t, if I were you. Keep her name out of your mouth and keep your eyes.” 

Billy crossed his corded arms, suit jacket straining against the bulk. “I still don’t know who the fuck she is,” he mumbled, his pride wounded, his authority undermined by a woman whose head he could see directly over when he looked straight out. Benson clapped him on the shoulder, lighting a cigarette, the white of it stark against the darkening night, under the awning and the electric lights and torches. 

“She’s the future, mate.” He inhaled, then trailed after Tessa, and Billy shook his head, gesturing for the next guests to step forward, elegant ivory invitations held in gloved hands. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO HERE'S THE THING I went to be with my man because I was worried my city was going to be locked down due to the virus and I did not want to be quarantined out there and then GUESS WHAT HAPPENED. Exactly that. so my timing was perfect, but does mean I'm kind of stuck on the other side of the country/back home where I'm from, which I was not really prepared for. it's totally fine bc I'm with my family and all, but anyway, it's been pretty much impossible to write because I've been trying to navigate all this shit with my apartment bc my lease is ending and my job bc I missed shifts due to the airports closing and all that shit. anyway, I wanted to give you guys an explanation, I really hope you're all doing alright and feeling okay, I've missed you very much, please tell me how you're feeling about all of this madness. and also like, this story, I guess lmao


	5. Flies in the Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queens and kings, we cut the wings  
> Kaleidoscope in our eyes  
> Hungry for industry, you lied enough to get high 
> 
> Poison in the wine, shame in the money  
> Diamonds in the sky, your hands getting bloody  
> Flies in the honey

6:48pm 

Tessa’s head was very, very light, like a balloon on a string, and it was making things incredibly difficult. Things like taking in her surroundings, and crossing the massive, unending center of the makeshift dance floor, a cleared space a hundred feet across, edged by clusters of tables and prototypes of vehicles dispersed throughout the hangar they were in. By the time she reached the wrought iron supports holding up the lofted second story, which were woven with live vines and flowers, she felt like she had been walking for about five years, her head heavy due to her hair being piled up on it, her dress heavy, too, and clinging to her form. The tightness of the waist was not helping with her lungs continued uncooperation. She sucked in air and scanned the crowd, realizing that her vantage point was about the worst spot in the room that she could have chosen to conduct surveillance from. She had hardly taken three steps back into the mingling crowd, craning her neck and trying to walk on her toes, when someone touched her on the shoulder, and she turned instantly. 

“Tom-?” she began, but her eyes met others that were a bright hazel, instead of blue, and very vaguely familiar. 

“Tessa Reilly? Is that you?” The voice- person- woman- was saying, and Tessa nodded in a completely vacant sort of way, trying to catch up, her mind in a thousand different places. “It’s Emmy, remember? Emmy Hiller, from primary school?” 

“Oh,” Tessa said, _not a Perish, you’re not about to be shot, not by her, at least, probably,_ and then, “Oh, of course. Emmy. It’s been quite a while.” 

“Yes, it has,” Emmy said, and she had a bright grin to match her bright eyes, and Tessa remembered that in primary school in London she had found Emmy to be the kind of person that meant well in their hearts but had been raised to a very particular standard and lacked the backbone necessary to question whether all of the assumptions they had been spoon-fed by their parents as a child were the result of truth or prejudice. In any case, Emmy had been quite fond of Tessa because of her looks and money, and Tessa had avoided Emmy altogether. She had avoided most people, really, until recently. “Almost, what, thirteen years now?” 

“Just about, I think,” Tessa said, swallowing a wave of nausea that began in her stomach like the child, god, she didn’t want to think of it as a child, was irritated at her forgetting about it’s insistent presence for even a moment. Emmy’s head was cocked like a bird, dark curls tight and short and shining. 

“And what on earth have you been up to?” Emmy asked, putting a friendly hand on Tessa’s arm, and Tessa had to forcibly command herself not to flinch. Jumpy nerves like a ticking bomb made for bad aim. Half of her mind was trying to figure out how to phrase her response, while she swept the room with her eyes, stare roaming over the bodies, trying to find someone, anyone, where _were_ they all?

“Oh, you know. This and that. I was a journalist for a bit.” 

“Journalist?” Emmy said, wrinkling her dainty button nose. “What a… masculine occupation. I thought you were aiding your father with the hospitals. And you know that’s not what I really _meant._ You must tell me if you’ve found anyone suitable yet!” 

Marriage. That’s what these conversations were always about, marriage and children and playing polo on the weekends. Tessa found Emmy’s use of the word “suitable” rather ironically amusing, because she was quite certain her choices could not be farther from whatever Emmy believed were what deemed someone worthy of that moniker. 

“I’m afraid not,” Tessa said, with a slight smile, which Emmy returned cheerfully, unaware of the source of Tessa’s amusement. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ve been with my Richard for… my, it must be over three years now. He’s in here somewhere,” Emmy said, glancing around the room, and Tessa made an appropriately congratulatory face, “Well, perhaps you are fated to meet the gentleman of your dreams tonight. What are you doing here, anyway? Is your father considering investing?” 

Tessa’s head spun warningly for a second, and she dug her sharp red fingernails into her palm to sharpen herself up, the sting guarded slightly by her gloves. 

“Uhm,” she said, haltingly, stalling her usually smooth speech, grateful that Emmy did not know her well enough to pick up on it, because Tommy would have. Where the fuck _was_ Tommy? Where were _any_ of them? “No,” she continued, inhaling a choked chuckle, her eyes still scanning the room to the best of her ability, candles and dazzling light fixtures and sparkling motorcars flashing across her view. “I’m quite sure my father will allow Reilly funds to support a Shelby enterprise the day hell freezes over.” 

“Oh,” Emmy said, her small mouth forming a small frown over Tessa’s tone. “Why is that? I _have_ caught whispers, you know, but we don’t hear much of what happens up north.” She said _up north_ like most people said _horse shit,_ but Tessa found herself grudgingly unable to defend the city from her judgement, given that there was nothing to defend against it with. Birmingham was hard and dirty and grey. 

“Just some… personal history, I think,” Tessa said, vaguely, actively searching for an out that didn’t come off as abjectly rude, searching for Benson’s tall silhouette, the sharp cut of Tommy’s hair, the tinkle of Polly’s laugh. _Jesus Christ, fuck it,_ she thought, and tried to make her expression as regretful as possible. “Listen, Emmy, I’m really sorry, I have to go, I have to find anyone. I mean, find someone. I’ll catch you later, yeah? It was nice talking to you,” she said, and was pushing past the pink lace covering Emmy’s shoulder before she even remembered to toss the other girl a last, placating smile, but she had barely taken four steps into the crowd before someone cut in front of her again. 

“Drink, madam?” the man asked, and Tessa was pulled up short. The waiter was young and handsome, his dark skin contrasting nicely with the white uniform. 

“I know you,” Tessa said, blunt in her surprise. He grinned a bit. 

“And I know you. We met at the charity gala several months ago.”

Tessa cocked her head. 

“Tommy hired you for this himself, didn’t he?” 

The waiter-bartender-sever man from the charity only smiled bigger. “Told me to never tell you that you needed a man with you to be able to drink again. Said to share the news that your name was enough payment for anything in Birmingham from now on.”

Tessa smiled wryly at the floor, ran her tongue across her teeth, shook her head.

“So, what number of cherries kind of night are we having?” 

“As many as you can fit into the fucking glass,” she mumbled, releasing a tight breath. He ticked his head in agreement, disappearing into the crowd, and she wished she had told him she didn’t need a drink, didn’t need to be tethered to another stationary spot in the middle of the huge wooden dancefloor, needed to move, needed to act, but she focused on the glittering bronze of the band’s instruments, the tangled motion of the crowd, pairs and groups of people who mattered, many of whom she realized she recognized, none who really mattered at all. The wrought iron walls contrasted starkly with the lines of dripping flowers, industry and nature side by side, but Tessa thought Tommy probably approved of the parallelism. Probably found it familiar. The man reappeared, carrying four glasses on a silver platter. He passed one to her with gloved fingers and a wink, then bowed slightly to a group of old white men clustered together behind Tessa, presenting them with the other drinks. Tessa glanced down at her crystal martini glass, which was filled with marichinos like little red marbles, the vodka hardly taking up any of the space. She laughed under her breath, and then felt frozen, like the world had snapped to a sudden stop. The circumstance hit her in the chest like a lead brick. She was standing in the middle of a black tie event, talking to old friends, or at least acquaintances, laughing and smiling. An hour ago, she had shot a man through the eye. She had a gun strapped to her leg and an empty bottle of cocaine in her pocket and a baby in her belly. There were people there to kill her, to kill all of them. They had to kill all of them first. _Us, them, us, them, and on and on,_ her head spun. She took a few shaky steps forward, braced her back against a cold wrought-iron support beam. People milled around her, but there was enough floor space in the factory that she was still allowed a wide berth, for which she was grateful. She slipped her gloves off and tossed back her drink and swallowed her vodka in a mouthful, almost dumping her massive pile of cherries onto her face in the process. The brick wall of her mind was shaking like the earth was crumbling, maybe it was, it felt like the floor was caving in- 

“Excuse me,” a smooth voice interrupted, “are you alright?” 

Her eyes shot open and she didn’t remember closing them, the red flash of her fingernails in her peripheral vision looked for a moment like her fingers had been dipped in blood, they had been dipped in blood, she hid them behind her back, clutching the smooth white silk of her gloves in her fingers. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, only then really taking in the man in front of her. He was maybe a decade older than her, his dark hair peppered but in a distinguished sort of way. He was wearing glasses, and his eyes were a frozen grey behind the frames. She vaguely recognized that he was handsome, but other than that, his face was nondescript to her in her slightly swirling view, she couldn’t focus on it, her fingers were twitching an odd rhythm against the icy steel behind her back, the texture rough and hard. 

“Perhaps a refill will help settle your nerves,” the man said, silver rims catching the light, “Allow me to fetch your next round.” 

“I’m still nursing this one, thank you,” Tessa replied, a practiced line, she had lost count of how many times she had used it, after picking it up from her mother during film premieres and high society gatherings. “Wouldn’t want all these cherries to go to waste.” The man smiled slightly, and Tessa had forgotten how easily most men were to charm. Tommy was an unimpressed exception. 

“A woman like you should be allowed to waste whatever she pleases,” the man said, flattering and smooth. 

“She does,” Tessa countered, her tone flat, thinking of Jack with a flash of hot pain through her temple. She wondered if the man was going to push, praying that he wouldn’t, that he would allow her to leave and find her family, make sure they were alright, make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Men like the one standing in front of her were not used to being told no. She knew, that, intimately, because she was living with such a man, and because she was one herself. But there was no way for silver glasses to know that the only pressure she felt in his presence was the fact that he was currently obscuring her view of the room. She met his gaze, steadily, expecting to see a cajoling twist of his lips under his neatly groomed goatee, but was surprised to see only an expression of mild fascination. 

“Forgive me,” he said, his words still measured and quiet. “If you find yourself parched, you need only let me know.” 

“Much obliged, but you needn’t worry about my thirst. I’m sure to be well taken care of tonight.” 

“I would expect nothing else,” he said, his eyes twinkling like he found her incredibly mundane responses the most engaging conversation he had ever participated in. 

“You’re American,” Tessa said, despite herself. He inclined his head and took a sip of champagne, the bubbles catching the light like glitter in the crystal flute. 

“As are you,” he said, and she nodded slightly. “Chance is a fickle god, after all.” 

“The Vatican would take issue with that statement, I think,” Tessa murmured, eyeing the crowd past the black shoulder of the man’s evening wear. Tommy was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t even find Arthur or Benson, although they at least she could be certain were present, if currently less so than she would have prefered. 

“Then I suppose we are lucky to be Americans, and not beholden to the antiquated ideals of the Old World’s religious institutions.” He swirled his glass elegantly, and Tessa looked at him curiously, truly paying attention for the first time. She was about to ask “And who exactly are you?” when a prim voice called, 

“Edward!” over the murmur of the guests, and Emmy’s head appeared in the crowd, pink dress sparkling with cream pearls and beaded overlay, brow furrowed under her dark fringe. Another man trailed behind Emmy as she approached, in a blue suit and monocle, his hair almost entirely grey, with the same keen eyes as Edward but an expression on his face like all of his surroundings were beneath him, which, given the level of absolute opulence they were currently immersed in, made Tessa dislike him immediately. 

“Oh, hullo again, Tessa,” Emmy said, looking taken aback. “Did you find who you were looking for?” she asked, raising her eyebrows like she thought Tessa had been caught in a lie. 

“Not yet. I’m starting to believe he’s hiding from me,” Tessa said, pleasantly, wondering if she should get up on a table for a better vantage point and really and truly embarrass herself in front of over a thousand people. 

“Well, he’s a rather sour companion, then, isn’t he? Nevertheless, if you ever do find him, you must introduce me. I do so love meeting new people.” Emmy’s eyes widened suddenly as if she had just unintentionally hit Tessa across the face. “Oh dear, speaking of, how could I forget? So rude of me. Edward, Richard, this is Tessa Reilly, we attended primary together in London. Tessa, this is Richard, my husband, and Edward, his brother.” 

“A pleasure,” the man who wasn’t Edward said, abandoning his sweeping gazes of critique and looking directly at Tessa for the first time. She waited for his lips to twist in distaste, but they did not, his eyes settling on her with significantly more weight than she desired. 

Edward hadn’t so much as glanced at Emmy since her arrival, his gaze set on Tessa with a mildly intrigued expression, like a scientist discovering a new species. Tessa sighed, swiveling her head like an owl, her quickly dissolving patience grating against her like sandpaper on skin. And then someone grabbed her elbow so tightly she winced. 

“Ow! Jesus!” She snapped, more out of surprise and built-up, secondhand tension than any actual pain, and Michael balked, hands held up in surrender from behind her. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, and Tessa was so relieved to see him, alive and in a smart tux, his young, pretty face scrubbed clean, that she almost jumped into his arms, but held herself back, the toe of her strapped heel tapping the nervous energy out instead as she crossed her arms and turned to him, the sound lost in the overflowing conversations, the bubbling jazz coming from the corner where the band played. “Tommy’s looking for you,” Michael said, quietly, in her ear, but Emmy heard, and Tessa wondered if the universe was attempting to punish her for committing murder. If so, it was working. 

“I’m looking for _him,”_ Tessa bit out under her breath, and Emmy jumped in. 

“Not Tommy _Shelby?”_ she asked Tessa pointedly, and Tessa watched Edward and his brother exchange a quick glance, and the air smelled of florals and metal and judgement, and Tommy chose that exact moment to appear behind Michael, weaving smoothly between the bodies. Tessa made a face at him as he approached that she knew was entirely too contextual and complex for him to be able to interpret but that she was unable to prevent, half relief and half trepidation, a plea and an apology. Tommy’s blue eyes glittered like the sun through sea glass under the sparkling lights strung from the distant rafters, his face blank and impassive as he strode closer. She watched him catalogue Edward and Richard’s presence, and Richard nodded to him, but Edward paid Tommy absolutely no mind, which Tessa was slightly taken aback by. People tended to part to Tommy’s presence like the waves of the Red Sea, which meant Edward was either that stupid or that important. 

“My apologies for intruding,” Tommy said, and Tessa caught the sharp edge of his tone, felt Michael shift uneasily beside her. Tommy’s hair, darker even than Emmy’s brown curls, gleamed in the warm amber glow, he was holding an elegantly cut crystal glass loosely in one hand, an inch of whisky at the bottom, pretending, for the sake of appearances, that he didn’t usually just drink it all in one go. He switched it to his left hand, reached out to shake Emmy’s, a social blunder Tessa thought he would normally have caught, but she could feel his attention on her, layered with Edward’s rather blatant, continued observation, even as Emmy ignored Tommy’s outstretched palm and delicately draped her hand towards him, presenting it for a kiss instead, which Tommy did not flinch from, the press of his lips quick and perfunctory. “Thomas Shelby. I assume this is your wife, Richard?” 

“Yes, this is Emmaline,” Richard said, his voice precise and as American as his brother. It had been so long since Tessa had heard someone speak in her own accent that she wondered at how she had not noticed it immediately. 

“Oh, everyone calls me Emmy,” the other woman said with a cheerful smile, and Michael muttered, “Emmy, Eddy and Dick,” in a lilting voice in Tessa’s ear, which made her snort and step on his toe to shut him up. She heard his hiss of pain and then his silence, and realized the distraction had caused her to miss a portion of the conversation, because there were three sets of eyes fixed on her, Tommy’s shockingly bright under his slightly raised eyebrows. 

“Yes, she is,” he said, his voice rolling and low, and Tessa knew he was referring to her, in response to a prompt from Edward, but wasn’t sure what the statement he was agreeing to had been, and she also knew that whatever it was, he had very much not appreciated the tone it was spoken in. This, coupled with the flat expression behind his stinging stare, did not bode well for Tessa. 

“Why, Tessa! I thought you said you hadn’t found anyone suitable yet!” Emmy squeaked, which made Tommy’s eyebrows climb very slightly higher, his expression cooling even further. There was an incredibly charged pause wherein Tessa swore internally and fumbled, trying to find an explanation that didn’t sound like a wispy excuse or one that condemned Tommy as a criminal in front of two complete strangers, trying to remind herself she couldn’t just fucking shoot Emmy in the foot to stop her from putting it in her mouth, while Tommy unhurriedly took out his cigarette case from the jacket of his tuxedo, his stare fixed on her with its full, withering power. Richard cleared his throat, and Tessa had been so absorbed in looking at Tommy, grateful for his presence no matter the circumstances, that she had not noticed that he had been watching her as well. 

“Mind if I borrow your date for a spin across the floor, Mr. Shelby?” he asked, and Tommy’s eyes slid slowly and deliberately from Tessa over to him. “All merchandise is available for a test ride upon request, isn’t that what your brother said?” 

Tommy blinked, once, and put his cigarette to his lips. His long black lashes fluttered as he glanced down at it, a man’s booming laugh travelled across the room, the band’s song ceased for a moment before transitioning into another, and in the pause, Tommy’s lighter flicked, orange flame dancing. He inhaled. 

“You can try my model on for size, if you’d like,” Richard continued, and Emmy’s cheeks flushed prettily, but her gaze dropped to the floor. Tommy swept his eyes over her in a quick flash and brief pause. Tessa saw Edward’s jaw clench slightly. 

“My hands are full with me Shelby cars. Enjoy the party, Misters and Mrs. Rockefeller. Tessa, come with me.”

He took her cold hand in his warmer, larger one, the feeling of his skin and the slightly rough calluses familiar and safe, despite how tightly he was gripping her, the smell of his aftershave and the smoke drifting from his other hand even more so, despite the haste with which he was tugging her after him across the room, Michael following somewhat behind. The only inclination Tommy gave that the recent conversation had bothered him was tipping back his glass the moment they were out of the Rockefeller’s line of sight, downing the contents and mindlessly setting the empty glass down on a table as they passed. Despite the security Tommy’s presence brought her, his appearance was anything but outwardly comforting. He looked like he always did, not entirely human, but captivating, ethereal. The hard angles of his cheeks and jaw were caught by the shadows as they slipped along the outskirts of the room, along the wall, where the pools of candlelight were interspersed with pockets of darkness. Tommy yanked her into one, his grip on her hand instead of her wrist, at least, but still tight enough to squeeze. Michael had been lost to the swarm of bodies, but Tessa felt better having seen him, even so briefly. Michael, Arthur, Tommy. Half of them, at least, she knew to be safe. She braced against Tommy’s insistent pressure, against her fragile thumb, but he forced her feet to stumble forward with a sharp tug, until they were pressed into a tight, dark corner under the cover of the second story loft, out of the reach of the hundreds of brilliant lights, Tommy’s eyes catching their reflection glittering like a cat’s in the shadows. 

“Rockefeller?” Tessa asked, but Tommy spun, clamping his hands on her upper arms in a tight grip, his face lowered to hers. 

“Where the fuck were you?” he prompted, immediately, his voice hard and edged like a knife. Tessa sucked a breath through her teeth. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the party, the sheared underside of his skull catching light in the short hairs, then stared at her, prompting and impatient. “Tessa? Eh?” 

“I’m sorry, I was with Star in the stables, I lost track of time-,” he did not believe her, she could sense it without even being able to see his expression, and he did not take well to lies. 

“This isn’t a fucking game.” He dropped his hands, which had squeezed hard enough to leave white imprints of his fingers against her skin. His anger was a thing with thorns, made her heart jump and cower like seeing a hand pull a gun. 

“I know,” she said, soft and urgent, his exhale was so sharp it could have popped a balloon. But that wasn’t true, and they both knew it. In the end, war is the only game, the ultimate form of play, the highest risks, the biggest board. 

“I can’t monitor your every move, Tessa, I thought putting Benson on you would be enough, I can’t fucking waste my time worrying about you tonight, there’s too much at stake-,” 

Tessa stood up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, felt him stiffen in surprise, felt him pull back slightly, then felt him give in and respond, open his mouth to her a bit, kissing her back, a hand against her exposed back, smoothing his palm over her skin. He sighed slightly when she pulled away and dropped back to her heels, his breath ghosting across her face, warmth and smoke and mint and whiskey, bringing his cigarette back up for another hit. She pressed her lips to the corner of his jawline, soft against his angles, felt the smoke whisper past her cheek. The noise of the room flowed past them like a river running with music and words and footsteps. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he just shook his head slightly, snorting under his breath, dismissive and irritated. Tommy didn’t respond, just looked at her, handsome as sin but still burning with cold anger, coming off his tense shoulders in waves. 

“Should never have let you fucking come.”

“Tommy, I’m sorry. Really. I lost track of time, I was looking for you-,” 

“You were being approached by a Rockefeller,” Tommy finished for her, ticking his head, and she huffed quietly, considered telling him that she had actually been approached by _two_ Rockefellers, and decided against it. 

“Well, he did offer you his wife as a consolation prize.” 

Tommy rolled his eyes slightly, a motion she only caught because of the movement of his lashes against the hollows of his eyes in his half-silhouette against the hay darkness of their shadowed alcove. 

“Thought you’d been fucking shot. Kidnapped. Worse.” Tommy admitted under his breath, so quietly she could hardly hear. She lifted her palm to his cheek, touched his face gently. His eyes closed and he let out another tight exhale, a fissure cracking, and then it was gone. He pointed a reprimanding finger at her chest, his golden rings flashing. 

“No more shit, Lolo. I’ll have you back at the house before the next toft cunt can so much as look at you. I’ll tie you to the fucking bed if I have to.” 

“Is that a promise?” Tessa whispered, in his ear, lips against the smooth skin. 

“You’ll be the death of me before Perish even gets a fucking chance,” Tommy said, wrly. Tessa managed a small smile, guilt bubbling in her stomach, or maybe that was just more nausea. That felt about the same. Tommy exhaled, and the smoke drifted through the darkness, illuminated by the light of the hanger.

“Fucking hate these things,” he murmured, his voice tumbling over the words. “Even without fucking... fascists as the guests of honor.” He rubbed absently at the nearly-healed cut under his tousled hair, his movements and words casual and restrained, the picture of composure. 

“Are they here?” Tessa asked, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer. When she blinked she saw Jack’s crimson blood staining his worn blue armchair, so she kept her eyes open until they stung, focused on the dark outline of Tommy’s face. 

Tommy clicked his tongue quietly. He was still pressed close to her, their heads bowed together. She felt the weight of his presence like a force against her, always tugging, pulling her in, a spider in a web. 

“Maybe,” he said, shortly, his tone even but a bit too clipped for his lack of concern to be entirely convincing, but perhaps only because she knew his intonation so well. “So far, everyone present has had an invitation. Told my men at the door to inform me the minute someone tries to enter without one. Which either means they haven’t arrived, or they stole some, or they’re undercover. But they’ll have to show their hand eventually, if they want a shot at taking us down. We’ll find them.” 

Tessa knew damn well about the restrictive access to the building, but she supposed it was her own fault for being preoccupied with a revenge kill. No. A mercy kill. She wanted to believe that’s what it was. She just wasn’t sure if she really did. 

“Everyone’s here?” 

Tommy nodded slowly, the glow of the end of his cigarette brushing light against his cheekbones for a moment like the tide against the shore, and his inhale sounded like the waves. 

“We should go away for a while. After all of this. A holiday.”

He didn’t respond, blinked slowly. 

“Somewhere sunny, maybe. I’d like to show you Chicago.” 

Tommy regarded her as he took another drag, his expression unreadable in the murky shadows, but it likely would have been characteristically indiscernible no matter what. 

“I’ve heard Chicago’s as grey as the cut, and the sun would turn you red as your hair.”

Tessa hummed and rested her head against his chest, feeling the firm resistance of the muscle under his crisply pressed tux, which smelled of the cleaners. 

“Then we’ll take one of your fancy new motorcars and drive until we reach water, and we’ll drive across that too.” 

“Not quite fancy enough for _that_ ,” Tommy muttered, the faintest hint of a tug at the corner of his lips. She tilted up on her toes to press a quick kiss to the spot, and he surprised her by taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeper, cupping her chin, firm and gentle all at once, sending shivers down the backs of her arms and legs. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nice long chapter today to try to prevent some of the boredom <3


	6. Robbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had a face straight out a magazine  
> God only knows but you'll never leave her  
> Her balaclava is starting to chafe  
> And when she gets his gun he's begging  
> Babe, stay, stay, stay
> 
> I'll give you one more time  
> We'll give you one more fight  
> Said, one more lie  
> Will I know you?
> 
> Now if you never shoot, you'll never know  
> And if you never eat, you'll never grow  
> You've got a pretty kinda dirty face  
> When she's leaving your home  
> She's begging you to stay, stay, stay, stay, stay
> 
> Said, one more line  
> There'll be a riot, 'cause I know you
> 
> Well, now that you've got your gun  
> It's much harder now the police have come  
> Now shoot him if it's what you ask  
> But if you'd just take off your mask  
> You'd find out that everything's gone wrong  
> Now everybody's dead  
> And they're driving past my old school  
> And he's got his gun, and he's got his suit on  
> She says, babe, you look so cool

6:57pm

Someone out in the faded rest of the world let out a piercing wolf whistle. 

“Oi! This is a respectable event. Couldn’t even last five minutes, mm?” Arthur called through the crowd, parting bodies as he approached, causing significantly more disturbance with the decibel of his voice than Tommy and Tessa would have even if they had been fucking in the corner. Michael and John flanked him, both wearing similarly cheeky grins. 

“Arthur?” Tommy asked, sliding his hand down Tessa’s back to rest it against the small of her spine.

“Yeah, Tom?” 

“Shut the fuck up, yeah?” 

“Yes sir, Sergeant Major,” Arthur said, with a mock salute that made John cackle. The brevity in Tommy’s eyes sucked the humor from their little gathering like furious wind whipping the breath from your lungs. 

“Where’s Polly?” Tommy asked, and Michael jerked his head vaguely at the dancefloor. 

“Canvassing, she said. Trying to find guests who may be able to help her improve her German.” 

Tommy nodded, leaned in closer to Arthur to murmur a question under his breath. Tessa caught the word “perimeter”, saw Arthur nod back, his lips angled downwards in a face of affirmation. Tommy pulled out his golden pocketwatch, checked the time, put it back into the tux. 

“Right, well, that gives us an hour for our guests to arrive before we shut the doors, and another hour to identify the targets. Which means, gentlemen, that now is the time to socialize. We have motorcars to sell.” 

John winced. “Can’t we just set the bloody bombs off now?” he muttered, and Arthur chuckled, went to put him in a headlock, and then seemed to remember their surroundings and caught himself halfway to reaching out and ruining John’s neat hair. 

“ _Behave,”_ Tommy said, pointing a warning finger at his brothers, as John made an expression of wide-eyed innocence. The group followed his lead out of the shadows like a gang of back-alley street cats, Arthur and John shoving each other and pretending not to, Tommy pretending not to notice, Michael scoffing at John when their antics bumped his shoulder. Tommy’s hand squeezed on her hipbone over the soft, taunt green velvet of her dress. 

“You look beautiful,” he rumbled in her ear, and Tessa threw him a smile over her shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing earlier?” 

“Internally bemoaning high society,” Tessa quipped, and Tommy shot her a sharp look, maneuvering her out of the way of another couple as they made their way across the huge hanger. 

“Mm hmm.” 

“I will,” Tessa said, “Just not right now. Too much going on.”

Tommy’s brows pulled together slightly, but if he had suspicions, he remained quiet about them for the moment. They were approaching the back of the factory, where the doors had been left open to expose another band, this one an orchestra, set up on a stage in the back lawn, with people milling about slowly in the cold night, eating food off of tables and sipping from drinks in shimmering glasses. 

“This is lovely, Tom,” Tessa said, a bit of astonishment in her tone. Tommy snorted coldly. 

“Yep, give it an hour or two,” he said, flippant. The breath caught in Tessa’s throat. It was like every second, she remembered all over again, and in the spaces between the seconds, she had the awful, sinking feeling of knowing that she was forgetting something terrible. 

“I don’t want you in that fucking plane.” The words slipped out like water through her fingers. 

He turned to her, softer than she was anticipating, halting their steps with his grip on her waist. When he spoke, however, his voice was hard. 

“The people coming here tonight hurt you. They fucking _killed_ my sister. I’m going to be the one on the gun, and I’m going to fucking slaughter them.” Coming from someone else, the words might have sounded trite, but there was something endlessly, terrifyingly empty in Tommy’s vivid cornflower eyes, there always had been, and since Ada, it had only grown. Tessa blinked, her eyes flickering over the scar on his cheek, the newer, longer one under his inky hair. 

“I know,” she said. “But I can’t come up with a way to be here if you’re gone.” 

A muscle jumped in Tommy’s jaw. “Don’t say that shit to me, Tess.”

Tessa set her face, set her eyes on him, locking his gaze. “It’s too late,” she told him, her voice almost sad, brushing the pad of her thumb over his cheek, over the scar. “It’s too late to bother not saying it. It’s already true.” 

Tommy took a breath that rattled a bit, shaking in his lungs, put his larger hand over hers where it rested against his face, pulled it down gently.

“I don’t fucking care. I don’t want to hear it,” he paused to inhale again, “I need you to listen to me, alright? Just listen. If anything happens to me tonight-,”

“Tommy-,” Tessa choked out, shaking her head in refusal, 

“Tessa!” Tommy snapped, his voice low and dangerous, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Her sinuses were dry from the snow, her ribcage so tight she thought it might crack under its own strain. “If something happens,” he began again, his words slow and clear, his eyes intense and earnest and she couldn’t imagine, she would not imagine, her world without him in it, “the company goes to you.”

“ _What?”_ she gasped out, but the fierce, unflinching expression on his face silenced her protest, or maybe she just momentarily forgot how to speak.

“Michael is too young, Arthur is too hot-headed, Polly’s heart is too soft to make the right choices,” Tommy said, and Tessa wondered if maybe he was wrong about his aunt’s constitution, if his mind would change if he knew what she and Tessa had done. 

“Tommy, Polly could-,” 

“Polly will help you. But until Michael is old enough, you’ll hold the title. In name only, if you wish, but I need someone at that table who understands the way this world works. Who understands the fucking politics, who doesn’t have a black mark against their name-” _For now,_ Tessa thought, “- for criminal activities. Shelby Company needs you, Tessa.” Her brow furrowed, _Until they caught her_ , but she couldn’t think about that now, about the possibilities. Her head was still shaking, despite how convincing his words were, the way his voice made you want to do anything and everything it said, like the whisper of the devil. 

“I can’t, Tom. I don’t know a thing about running a company, and my name isn’t Shelby-,”

“Not yet,” he said, and she actually gave a little, incredulous gasp, like she had been struck in the face by a palm made of ice.

“What are you-,” she began to say, once she had her breath back, Tommy’s stare so bright and so cold, Tommy’s smell like the air through dark trees, Tommy, hers, forever, or Tommy shot, his lifeblood resting in her hands, all over her, and in one moment she saw her future, ripped into two paths like satin right down the middle, her and Tommy and the baby and the world at their feet, and her alone, her without him, empty empty empty except for her pockets. His eyes moved past her, behind her, always aware, always watching, and she heard a throat clear.

“‘Ello, Tom. Interrupting something, am I?” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is kind of a favorite of mine, but tbqh, so are the next two lmao things are finally culminating after all this work and time and effort and it's so fun to write!! hope you guys are staying safe and entertained, fingers crossed that this helps a little.  
> ps. next chapter is Alfie's


	7. Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're like an empress  
> You've got fire running down your cheeks  
> You burn everything you see
> 
> Bring the lion out, bring the, bring the lion out 
> 
> You were december  
> Eyes cold, freezing my blood  
> Somehow, somehow not enough
> 
> Bring the lion out, bring the, bring the lion out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, do I love this chapter.

7:03 pm 

  
  


Listen, mate, the thing about broads is, you don’t want to go for the best ones. They’re like cuts of meat, right, the ones that cost you three pounds an ounce taste just the same as the ones you can get for seventeen shillings. Alfie guessed that Thomas Shelby might have a rather different opinion than that. Not that they had ever discussed it. The prick only ever said about three words a day, and all three of them usually had to do with some business venture or some other such mundane thing. Well, mundane except the shit that always seemed to come with it, when it came to their world. When it came to Tommy, especially. But yeah, Alfie thought it was a fair enough bet, with his tailored suits and sportcars and fucking extravagant parties when he could have just hauled the Germans out to a field loaded with landmines, you know, Alfie would say that Tommy was the sort to go buy the cow that had been fed nothing but caviar it’s whole, royal life, but, speaking for himself, as one tends to, Alfie had never seen a cow like that and actually wondered how it tasted, so the waste was lost on him. Pussy was pussy and meat was meat, you spend long enough in a trench and you tend to forgo the little, fabricated delineations. Tommy had been in the war, too. So perhaps he would take Alfie by surprise, as he often did, bring a nice, quiet woman who he could trust not to speak up against him. Someone fit enough, but nothing to cause problems, a girl like his secretary, perhaps, what was her name? Liz or some such. Alfie liked Liz, thought she was just about the one he would go for, if he was Tommy, which he wasn’t, and if he was looking to settle down, which he definitley fucking wasn’t. All of Alfie’s questions, he was an inquisitive person by nature, you see, would soon be answered, because there was Tommy and he was clearly talking to his girl, and she was small enough, right, so that was good, because Tommy was comparatively little fellow who would probably feel emasculated if his woman was taller than he was. Not that Alfie had any height on him, but Alfie didn’t mind the size of his women. He didn’t mind much at all, long as they fucked off in the morning so that he could pray without disruption. Alfie knew she was the one before he had even seen her, obstructed by the large head and shoulders of another guest, because Tommy was looking down at someone, and not just metaphorically, for once, with more feeling flickering across his face than Alfie had ever seen. He was an odd man, Thomas Shelby, and that, coming from Alfie, as probably really fucking saying something, right? His sister dies and he kept a mask over his face, but for whatever bullshit, pikey reason, some little bird that looked like she hardly came up to his chin was the one he chose to show anything to. Ah, well. Least he was capable, after all. Probably good for the stupid bastard to drown in something other than whisky, yeah, but pussy, mate, was God’s most intoxicating poison. And going off expression, Alfie thought Tommy was drunk like a punch. That was not what Alfie wanted to see from the man he was trusting to partner with on the most foolheaded fucking trainwreck of a venture he had every hopped his merry Jewish ass onto. Then Tommy spotted Alfie, over her shoulder, his face snapped closed like a book slamming shut, and the large man in Alfie’s way finally fucking moved so that he could meander over to their happy little gathering. 

“Tessa, this is Mr. Solomons, the business partner of mine who is helping this evening run smoothly,” Tommy was saying, more for Tessa’s benefit than to really introduce Alfie, which irked him. He deserved a proper introduction, didn’t he, considering the life and limb he was putting on the line to assist? Tommy ignored the sniff Alfie shot at him completely, and then Alfie turned to Tessa, hands folded over his cane, ready to commence the judgement of his so-called business partner’s life choices. After a moment, he clicked his tongue. 

“Fuck, Tom,” he said, chuckling a bit. “Mon ami je te comprends. Je te comprends bien maintenant.” 

Now it was Tommy’s turn to send Alfie a withering look, and Alfie applauded himself for guessing correctly that Tommy had picked up more of the French language than he usually let on. 

“J'en doute,” Tessa responded. “Personne ne peut le comprendre.” 

Alfie huffed a laugh, extending a gleeful finger between her and Tommy, whose expression was, in a shocking turn of events, still completely closed, like he could have predicted the conversation word for word. Bastard. Could’ve given a bloke a bit of warning. 

“What’s your name again, then, red?” Alfie asked her, itching his nose. He knew it, of course, because of the plan Tommy had set two summers ago. Her beautiful face was hard for him to read, wasn’t it? Rather hard, and he excelled at that sort of thing. A bit like her companion there, who had his hands clasped in front of him, for once actually managing to express a human emotion, looking serenely amused. 

“Tessa,” she said, her voice clear, too clear. American. 

“Ah, right, right, I remember now, yeah,” Alfie said, nodding enthusiastically. He caught the sideways glance Tessa gave to Tommy, and was sure Tommy saw it as well, he never missed a tick, but Alfie paid it no mind. “Tommy here’s been telling me all about you.” 

“Is that so?” Tessa asked, a slight smile wrapping around her lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. Her hair _was_ quite red, fuck, Alfie had a brief vision of her dipping it in blood, though he couldn’t have said why. “Sounds just like him. You’re Alfie Solomons.” 

“He tell you about me too, did he?” Alfie asked, eyeing Tommy, who lifted his eyebrows unconcernedly. 

“No,” Tessa said, voice like a flute, “you stopped us having a fuck once, and I don’t forgive that easily.” 

Alfie stared at her, combed through his beard, very slowly began to smile. Tommy cleared his throat. 

“Mmph,” Alfie replied, giving her a very obvious once-over, just to see Tommy shake. Tommy didn’t so much as flinch, but he never did, did he? Just lifted his chin somewhat, like a lion, surrounded by his pride. Sometimes Alfie did feel rather bad about going back on their deal, just a smidge, you know. A shame, that would’ve been, if things had turned out differently, a waste. That band _was_ loud, now, wasn’t it? A bit jarring. Aflie didn’t much like noise. The bakery was a test of his patience most days. He wondered how Tommy felt about it all. Fuck knew. Not Alfie. Couldn’t ever fucking tell with him. Maybe Tessa, but she was not looking at Tommy, thank fuck for that, he hated twitterpation, instead rearding him with her large, dark eyes, rimmed in darker makeup than he expected. Her lips were a soft pink, she looked a little like a doll come to life, a familiar face on a cinema flyer. Alfie got it. It seemed there was nothing in the world Alfie’s precarious God would deign not to hand to Tommy Shelby, and Alfie had to hand it to him, too. 

“Oh, by the way, you’ve got a little smudge of somethin’ on your face there, mate,” Alfie said, gesturing at the spot on his own, just to knock Tommy down a peg, he didn’t really mean anything by it. Lipstick, probably. And not Tessa’s. But instead of glaring at Tommy, Tessa’s eyes dropped to her fingers, she slid them behind her back, Tommy’s gaze caught the motion, and both of their stares met. There was a smear of red on Tommy’s cheek, and Tessa’s long, pale fingers were patchworked with the bright color, white gloves held forgotten in her hand. Not lipstick, then. 

“ _What did you do?_ ” Tommy hissed, immediately, and Alfie suddenly became much more interested in their relationship. 

  
  
  


“Nosebleed,” Tessa said, easily, but Tommy was having none of it, radiating invisible fury. He stopped her attempts to re-cover her fingers in the the gloves, saw the red staining down her hand, he jerked his head. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he whispered, then, clearly controling his voice, asked again, “What the fuck did you do, Tess?”

“Looks to me like she fucking shot somebody, doesn’t it, mate?” Alfie supplied, unhelpfully, torn between confusion and grim amusement.

“Not NOW, Alfie,” Tommy spat, Tessa’s face was white but set, and Alfie could see it now. _Nosebleed,_ she had said, pale face and wide, blown eyes. He wouldn’t have been surprised if that actually had been the case, but the truth was even more brutal. _A shame and a waste,_ Alfie thought, Tommy looked close to slinging her over his shoulder and hauling her bodily out of the room, his fingers flexing into fists, his mouth saying, “You and me, we need to fucking talk.” Tessa did not protest, was about to turn and allow him to lead her away, when a small hand tapped Tommy on the shoulder. 

“What,” Tommy barked, his tone hard and impatient, and as he turned he came face to face with a set of dark, angled eyes, and the dainty, pretty face of a young Asian woman. Tessa spun at the same time, took one look at the other girl as she opened her lips to speak, and didn’t miss a beat before she cocked her fist and landed a blow directly across the girl’s mouth, sending her head lashing to the side, making her stumble, the dull sound of the impact audible even over the flow of the music and voices, which grew quiet. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfie says "I understand. Yes, I understand you well now, my friend." Tessa says "I doubt it. No one understands him". but probably not because my French is awful. as in, I don't know any French lmao


	8. Stigmata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you get into the mind-state to kill? 
> 
> They put a hole in the back of my head, called it suicide  
> I woke up with these holes in my hands from the day I was crucified 
> 
> Who's gonna rise when saints pray to sinners?  
> The truth won't die when they pull that trigger
> 
> Stigmata!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also REALLY enjoy this chapter too tbh. now go get you some more Alfie

7:05 pm

  
  


“ _SHIT,”_ Lucy swore, thickly, through the already-flowing blood in her mouth. Heads began to turn like weathervanes towards the scene, Tommy lunging forward to grab Tessa’s arms to restrain her, Lucy pressing a hand against her red teeth, Alfie laughing with a gusto he hadn’t felt in years. 

“What a _woman,_ eh, Tommy?!” he called to his not-friend, who was speaking quickly and quietly in Tessa’s ear from his position behind her. Alfie could see her hand, still balled up, shaking, bright blood on her knuckles. She released it slowly.

“I’m fine,” he heard her say, then something from Tommy that sounded like his sister’s name, then something Alfie couldn’t understand, which was a rare occurrence, and he realized it must have been Romani. ‘Bout the only fucking language he didn’t know, at this point, but vastly inferior to Yiddish, anyway, so who really gave a rat’s ass, but Tessa was nodding. “I know. I’m fine.” 

“Well, I’m _not_ fine,” the dark-haired woman yelped, her voice still obscured, the blood beginning to swell between her fingers. “I think you broke my bloody tooth!” Her words sounded like “bluffy toof”, and Alfie was not even bothering to control his wide grin. 

“Be grateful it wasn’t your neck,” Tessa spat at her, and Alfie hooted. There was _history_ here, mate, that was a certainty. A single red spiral had fallen from where the rest were pinned up, fluttering across her lovely face. Alfie couldn’t decide if it made her look unhinged, or just impossibly more beautiful. And then the rest of them showed up, all at once, like they were planning a dramatic entrance, the aunt and the brothers, even someone Alfie thought might have been a cousin. Fuck knew, with that family. Like fucking rabbits, they were, felt like everywhere he turned Alfie was stumbling upon another Shelby. _And another tonight, it would seem,_ he thought, gazing amusedly at Tessa. 

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Polly asked, trying to gauge the expressions on each face, rushing over to check Tessa’s hand, which she was cradling slightly, tossing a spare glance to Lucy as if to only confirm her presence, giving no concern to the blood running down her fair chin.

“Nice to see you, Lucy,” the young maybe-cousin said, dryly. He seemed a mere boy to Alfie, with a handsome, serious sort of face. The whole family was dressed to the nines, in true Shelby fashion, evening wear for a pub brawl. 

“I need to talk to Tommy,” the woman named Lucy demanded, determined, through her lisp and past her hand. Tessa’s eyes flickered between Lucy and Tommy, and Alfie thought _Holy fucking lord, if that Chinese one is fucking pregnant I will ascend right here, on this very spot, Yahweh take me, this party is already a shining success, fuck the Germans, this shit is about to get absolutely_ splendid, _all_ _right?_ But Tommy looked like he was very obviously deciding if he was going to speak to her or not, which disappointed Alfie because he reckoned if there was even a chance it was all over a child, Tommy would really not have much of a choice about that, would he, poor fellow, called out in public like so. 

“Get her out of here. Second office, on the right,” Tommy murmured to his brothers, who were standing slightly to the side as if unsure if and when they should intervene. John nodded silently, Arthur muttered, “Of course, Tom. Come on, come with me now,” he said, loping over and holding out a hand for Lucy to accept, which she did, rather unsteadily. Tessa’s chest was rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, Polly turning her face from side to side to inspect for damage. 

“Why is she here?” she flung at Tommy, who tossed his hands in a defeated gesture, rolling his eyes at the vaulted metal ceiling. 

“I’ve no fucking idea,” he said, looking like a man who had reached the end of his rope of paitence. “I’m going to go find out.” He looked around at their audience, which now included most of the guests in their near vicinity. “Sorry, folks. Little misunderstanding. Go back to your drinks.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Tessa said, right away as he began to turn, her chin set. Alfie might have giggled at Tommy’s expression. He _might_ have. He was going to hell either way, all right? Laughing at a friend’s difficulties ranked rather low on his laundry list of sins, anyway. 

“ _You_ aren’t doing any-fucking-thing without my permission,” Tommy told her, his eyes round blue flames, but she tossed her head and scoffed. The diamonds on her neck sparkled with the movement, her long emerald gown swishing around her as she turned, the back dipping so low Alfie could see the imprint of her spine in a line down her back like a stream between the precipices of her shoulder blades. 

“Save it for your whores, Thomas,” she threw over her shoulder, before vanishing between the press of bodies in the direction Arthur and John had gone with Lucy. Polly tossed Tommy a nonchalant half shrug, looking like she was holding back a smile. 

“That fucking woman,” Tommy whispered through parted lips, with an expression of absolute disbelief, shaking his head at her retreating form. 

“Think you’ve got enough metal left in you to handle all that, Tom?” Alfie asked, failing rather badly at covering his glee. Tommy smacked him hard with his shoulder as he passed silently, nearly causing him to topple.  
“Dinner and a show, tonight!” Alfie called at his dark, disappearing head over the crowd of onlookers, none of whom had even pretended to go back to their drinks. Polly made a conspiratorially incredulous face at Alfie as she followed her nephew, and Alfie grinned again. 

“Shelby Company fucking Limited, eh?” He said, under his breath. He shook his head. “And they say _I’m_ fucking pathological.” 

  
  


7:08 pm 

  
  
  


Polly walked quickly to catch up to Tessa outside the office door, wary of Tommy’s approach. The hallway echoed the voices of the party through the empty halls, bouncing off the steel and glass, like whispers from beyond the veil. Tessa’s arms were crossed, freckles shining slightly on her shoulders, as she faced inside the room, where Arthur was handing Lucy his pocket square to dab against her bleeding mouth. The two women stood together for a split second of silence before Polly spoke. 

“Is it done?” she asked. Tessa’s fingers tightened against her arm, pressing until the skin turned white. 

“It’s done,” she said, her voice empty, and Polly nodded. 

“Good girl.” 

Their eyes met, and Tessa’s lighter ones looked like the ocean under a storm, lost and wild. Polly took her hand, the knuckles split on her middle and index fingers, blood dripping from the cuts, Lucy’s blood smeared on the back, more blood staining her fingers. Different blood. _So it was done,_ Polly thought, with a rush of relief, and then a rush of grief. Tessa was not looking at her, her eyes unfixed and unfocused. 

“Look at what we’ve done to you, chavi,” Polly said, and the sadness in her voice was not for some dead narc reporter, or a Chinese whore with a busted face. It was for the slight girl standing before her, in the prime of her life, full of time and promise, all of which would be wasted, all because she fell for the wrong man.

“Yeah. I’m a true Shelby now,” Tessa said, evenly, her left hand pressed subconsciously to her abdomen. She was looking at Lucy through the open doorway like she wanted to rip her apart. 

“Welcome to the family, love,” Polly said, digging out her cloves. Tessa’s eyes closed slowly, then heard Tommy’s approach, and flickered open again. Tommy came to a stop in front of them, his gaze set past, looking into the office. He took out his cigarette case, his eyes deliberately not meeting Tessa’s. He flicked his lighter, and inhaled with an audible crackle, his stare still distant. There was silence for several long, tense moments, and then, finally, he spoke. 

“Where’d you learn to hit like that?” he said, in his deep voice, and Polly pressed her fingers to her lips to stop her chuckle, saw Tessa’s small, surprised smile before it was wiped from her face like a blackboard. 

“My brother,” she answered. Tommy blinked and nodded but gave nothing away. Polly hid her grin, not wanting Tessa to know what she was thinking, because Tessa might have known Tommy, but Polly knew him better. Polly knew him better than anyone. Polly had nursed him when he was a baby and his mother was nowhere to be seen. Polly knew Tommy, and she knew the nothing-ness on his face wasn’t just carefully hidden anger. There was something like pride, there, perhaps despite himself, despite his bids for so-called legitimacy, etched in the sculpted lines of his cheeks and jaw. He clicked his tongue, gave a very small shake of his head. 

“Come on, then,” he said, with a sigh. “Don’t fucking hit her until we know what she’s here to say. She saved my life.” 

“She’s brave enough to be coming here, in any case,” Polly said, and Tessa glanced down at her bloody knuckles.

“Brave or stupid,” she said, in an undertone, and Tommy led them into the room. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI BEBIES how are we?? surviving, yeah? I've needed to make this note for like.... 987538634 chapters now, but I am finally doing it! Just wanted to say if anyone has any inside knowledge on topics like languages, histories, dialects, time periods or anything like that, please please please tell me! as you know, this fic is pretty ridiculously detailed, so any help I can get I am incredibly grateful for, because I don't have a beta or anything and I know lots of my readers have incredible amounts of knowledge of things I know nothing about. I'm specifically looking for help with the languages, my Latin is okay but there's French and Romani in here too. I'm USUALLY pretty solid with the British dialect, but I could use some pointers for that as well, because sadly, if you did not already know, I am an American. Trust me, it's a disappointment to me too. 
> 
> HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT LUCY WHAT DO WE THINK SHE'S UP TO? How is Tommy going to react to the murder? Tell me your guesses, I wanna hear them. Also, since I have so many chapters queued up, I thought I'd tell you the title of the next one. like a lil ~teaser~ uwu <\--- sorry about that 
> 
> Next Chapter is titled House of Wolves. If you know who the song is by, good. If you don't, it will be my pleasure to introduce you.


	9. House of Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know a thing about contrition  
> Because I got enough to spare  
> And I'll be granting your permission  
> 'Cause you haven't got a prayer
> 
> Well I said hey, hey hallelujah  
> I'm gonna come on, sing the praise  
> And let the spirit flow on through you  
> We got innocence for days!
> 
> Well, I think I'm gonna burn in hell  
> Everybody burn the house right down
> 
> Tell me I'm an angel, take this to my grave  
> Tell me I'm a bad man, kick me like a stray
> 
> S-I-N, I S-I-N
> 
> You play ring around the ambulance  
> Well like you never gave a care  
> So get the choir boys around you  
> It's a compliment, I swear  
> And I said, ashes to ashes, we all fall down  
> I wanna hear you sing the praise  
> I said, ashes to ashes, we all fall down  
> We got innocence for days!
> 
> You better run like the devil  
> 'Cause they're never gonna leave you alone  
> You better hide up in the alley  
> 'Cause they're never gonna find you a home  
> And as the blood runs down the walls  
> You see me creepin' up these halls  
> I've been a bad motherfucker  
> Tell your sister I'm another  
> Go! Go! Go!

7:09 pm 

  
  


“Sit,” Tommy said, pointing to an open, hard-backed chair. “And talk.” 

Lucy obeyed silently, her head ducked. She sat, gave a soft sigh, looked up at him. The room was far less grand than she would have expected, bare-boned and minimal, metal and wood. And dark, except for the hazy, industrial hanging bulb in the center of the room, glowing with low, halfhearted light. It felt like an interrogation. It was one. 

“I said I wanted to talk to _you,”_ she said to him, eyeing the five other figures in the room, especially Tessa, with distrust. Tessa’s expression was an inch away from having her teeth bared. Tommy’s didn’t exist. He looked at her blankly, a terrifying void, like the space between the stars. 

“You are talking to me. So fucking _talk.”_

Both Tommy and Tessa’s arms were folded, him from his position in front of her, Tessa from across the room. Polly had a hand resting on a cocked hip, Arthur and John were shoulder-to-shoulder on the wooden wall whose entire surface served as a pin-board, covered in graphs and diagrams. Michael was sitting backwards with his arms slung over the back of another chair, silently observing, glancing occasionally at Tommy. _The whole family,_ Lucy thought, _what a treat._ Then she realized Tommy had his arms crossed to keep a hand on his gun, and made a mental guess about how many of the room’s other occupants were armed, and had to tense her muscles to stop from trembling. They had taken her .22 at the door. She started to talk, tripping over her tongue like a foot caught on a loose cobble. 

“Two months ago, I was at a bar with Jack Fischer. He wanted me to help him write a story about you. About your… family.” Lucy began, her speech choppy. Polly snorted cruelly. 

“What, you wanted to get in your _mea culpa_ before your suicide?” She asked, and Tessa huffed a laugh. Tommy flashed a warning look at both of them. Lucy didn’t want to look at him. She couldn’t see his face without remembering how he had looked after the crash, how absolutely, devastatingly broken. Couldn’t see his face without knowing how it looked now, frozen and unforgiving. 

“Maybe,” she whispered back. 

“Go on,” Tommy snapped. “Be quiet,” he said, pointing at his aunt without looking at her. Polly’s eyebrows raised dangerously. 

“I told him yes because I was planning on double-crossing him,” Lucy continued, staring at a spot on the floor next to her black heel. She was completely underdressed, as she couldn’t afford the necessary finery, and she had nearly been turned away at the door, but there had been some men who had been handing out extra invitations, who had smiled at her oddly when she asked for one, and she had been allowed to come inside. She almost hadn’t. She had almost left, she had almost gotten on her boat to the new world. Almost. 

“I was going to tell the Blinders what Jack was planning, give you all his information, instead of the other way around.” Her eyes stung and watered, blurring her vision. “But Tommy made me angry. So I didn’t tell you. And then Ada… Ada was killed.” Her words choked a bit, and she had the odd feeling that everyone else was remembering simultaneously that she was the only person besides Tommy who had seen their sister, their cousin, their niece, their best friend, die. “When we were working on the article,” she continued, gasping, the tears rolling down her cheeks, “we were… we were approached by a man. He said he needed us to do something for him, to print confidential information in our article, make it public. That we wouldn’t be linked to it in any way. I knew what would happen if we did. And I knew what would happen if we didn’t,” she said, inhaling and sucking her lower lip into her mouth, tasting more blood, wincing at the flash of pain it caused. “I said no. Jack… Jack said yes. He promised he wouldn’t, but he lied. I started trying to contact Tommy the moment I discovered the truth, but it was… I was too late.” Ada’s face swam in her view, red running down her face, bits of glass in her hair from when she had gone through the windshield. Lucy pressed her hand to her mouth to smother a sob, the guilt burning through her like embers singeing her veins. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.” There was a beat of charged silence. 

“Tell me about the man who approached you,” Tommy said, his voice completely empty. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather a fixed spot on the wall behind her, thinking, thinking, always thinking. 

“He was… German. He had black hair, brown eyes. He was tall, he had a tattoo on the back of his hand. Some... shape, like crosses. That’s all I know. He didn’t give us his name.” 

Tommy nodded briefly, ticking two fingers at his brothers instantly. “Arthur. John. Go search the building for anyone matching that description. Michael, go tell our boys to be on the lookout, spread the word.” The other men nodded, Michael standing and adjusting his suit jacket primly. The door swung closed behind them. 

“Why would he be here?” Lucy asked, petrified, but no one bothered to answer her. Tommy took out his gun. Lucy flinched, but Tommy pulled out the clip, inspected it, and slid it back, speaking as he did so. 

“Polly, I need you to keep everyone occupied for an hour. That’ll still be thirty minutes before we deploy the bombs. I’ll be back by then.” 

“The _what?”_ Lucy all but mouthed, her words silenced in her throat. Polly was shaking her head, her dark curls glimmering, her fingers tapping against the Black Madonna around her neck. Tessa looked at her for a moment, saying something with her eyes, and after a moment, Polly’s tense shoulders sank in acceptance. 

“Tell Arthur I need the keys for one of the prototypes-,” Tommy continued, but Tessa interrupted, her voice soft. 

“Tommy,” She said, sounding like she wished whatever she was saying wasn’t true, “You can’t.” He ignored her, began to turn and cross the room, head toward the door. She stepped into his path, hand raised. Her heels gave her a bit more height on him, but with the usually free-flowing mane of red pinned up, she seemed small. “Tom,” she said again, imploringly. “You _can’t_ , baby.” 

Tommy made a quick, cold face that made Lucy, just for a moment, want to tell Tessa to get out of his way. Then her mouth throbbed with pain again, and she thought, _Let the queen of the wolves be devoured by them._ “Tommy was a good man,” Polly had said, once, after a bottle of wine when they worked together in the office. “And it’s good men make the worst bad ones.” Lucy hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of that, and Polly had tipped the bottle, found it empty. “But he never fucking listened,” she had sighed. “Even then. Never fucking did what he was told. It just isn’t in his nature.” Maybe that was it, the reason for the glint in Tommy’s eyes. Maybe Tessa was trying to protect Jack. Maybe she was stepping out, against Tommy’s rage, about to be incinerated in it’s waves-,

“Can’t _what_?” Tommy whispered, his mouth curled in a cruelly amused prompt, like he was daring her, like he was chasing her along a double-edged sword, waiting to see how she would fall. 

“You can’t kill him,” Tessa said, her voice shaking, and the only noise in the room was Tommy’s sharp breaths. But he didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood, and Lucy was waiting for him to react, to chastise Tessa for ever questioning him, but then she realized he was waiting for something, too, and she didn’t know what it could possibly be. 

“Why?” he asked, simply. Tessa took a deep breath. 

“I already did,” she told him, and a weight of silence fell over the room like the drop of a gavel. Tommy remained motionless for a moment, frozen, then shook his head in disbelief, his full lips parted as if in offence. 

“Oh, my god,” Lucy whispered, the words a ghost of a prayer. Polly’s heavy jewelry clinked as she crossed her arms. 

“It’s true, Thomas. That’s his blood on her hands,” Polly said, nodding at Tessa’s fingers. Tommy looked from her to his aunt so sharply he reminded Lucy of a hawk. 

“You _knew_ about this?” Tommy hissed, seemingly more surprised by the potential than he had when his sweetheart confessed to murder, like he had already figured it out somehow. Polly’s involvement, however, he seemed not to have predicted. “You fucking planned this together?” 

Polly raised her chin elegantly, fluttering a black-gloved hand through the air like a dark-winged bird. “Coppers will be all over our house within the week. I saw the court orders. You touching Jack Fischer, you being involved with his death in any way without an airtight alibi, means you hang.” She had been holding an unlit smoke, and she placed it between her lips as she searched for her lighter, ignoring Tommy’s burning stare. “There is no better alibi than ignorance.” 

“Fuck,” Tommy muttered, pressing the hand holding the gun against his head, like he was trying to stop his skull from cracking. “Fuck! And what the fuck did you think was going to happen to Tessa?! I have _men_ for this shit, Polly! They’re going to be fucking coming for _her_ now!” 

“I’ll handle it, Tom-,” Tessa started, but he spun on her. 

“And it’ll be fucking London inspectors, not Birmingham coppers. Not fucking Moss. We’re in the wrong fucking city,” he said, helplessly frustrated, half to himself. “They tie the Shelby name to this, that means the fucking Branch gets involved, _fuck,_ the Crown’s already breathing down our fucking necks-,” He stopped, closed his eyes. He pulled a sharp breath through his nose. The monologue ceased. He fell silent, pressed his lips together for a moment. Three women waited, watching him. Then he cleared his throat. 

“Alright, listen to me.” He participated in none of the usual, anxious ticks of lesser men, did not fix his bowtie or run his hands through his hair. He had no tells, Tommy Shelby. He was less a poker face than he was the game itself. He turned to his aunt and lover. “I need you to find the names of anyone, _anyone,_ who knows _anything_ about this. I need you to fucking give me those names. And I need you both to go.” 

“Tommy-,” Tessa started, reaching out a hand to him, but he pulled back, pointed at the door. 

“Go. Now. Find Benson, and do not leave his fucking sight.” Tessa’s face was pale. 

“Yes, love,” she said, quietly apologetic. Lucy was still frozen, watching the developments like she was at the cinema. She had _killed_ him. Tessa had _killed_ Jack. Tommy, she knew. Tommy, she had expected. Tommy would have spent the rest of his life looking for a way to get rid of the reporter. Lucy knew that. But for Tessa to possess the kind of darkness required for cold-blooded murder took her aback. After the initial shock began to wear off, she realized she did not feel very badly for him. Jack Fischer had dug his own grave with a shovel made of righteousness. She did feel quite bad for herself, about to be left in a room alone with an armed Thomas Shelby, after having confessed to aiding in the murder of his sister. Of all of the scenarios in all of the world, she thought that this was likely the worst. Tessa, she believed, she wanted to believe, had at least been merciful to Jack. Tommy would not be to her. Tessa’s crimson head disappeared behind Polly’s as they left the room, Polly shooting a last glance over her shoulder. Lucy couldn’t read her expression, and that was worse than it would have been if it was just fear. The door closed. Tommy sighed, shrugging off his smart tuxedo jacket, his gun holster gleaming black leather, currently empty. The dark gun rested on the desk behind him. Lucy felt a lurch in her stomach when she saw another was tucked into the waistband of the front of his trousers, and had a sick feeling that there were more, hidden from sight. _Set off the bombs,_ they had said. _Search the party for anyone matching his description._

“Big night?” she asked, feebly, and Tommy didn’t respond, his oddly beautiful features absolutely impassive. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I had no idea Ada… I didn’t mean for Ada…,” 

“This isn’t about that,” Tommy said, idly, crossing his legs in front of him like they were just talking numbers and business back in the office. “We’re straight, you and me.” 

“We are?” Lucy breathed, relief flooding through her like novocaine. Tommy nodded barely, very slowly. 

“You saved my life. I’m letting you go. I’ll tell my family they’re not to harm you.”

“Oh, Tommy, thank you-,” she gasped, and he held up a finger, his eyes narrowing. A clock ticked on the wall, echoing in her ears like a drum. 

“ _But,”_ he said, “anything I need from you. Anything. Ever. You owe me,” he said, his focused eyes too much for her to bear. _Tick, tock._

“Okay,” she whispered, staring past him, at the hazy outline of mostly-bare shelves in the dark. Tommy was motionless. If the shadows cloaking him were just a little bit deeper, she might not have known he was there. 

“Why today?” he asked, casually, pulling out his cigarettes, his pocketwatch tinkling. 

“What?” she blinked, nonplussed. Her heart was thudding in her chest like it was trying to escape. 

“Why tell me all this _today_?” he repeated, and her breath caught again. 

“I knew you’d be here,” she said, and he looked at her. He shook his head. 

“That isn’t it,” he told her, quietly, and her lip trembled. 

“I’m leaving,” she admitted. “I’m getting out. A boat to the states. I’m going to try to find some work there, some way to… help my mother. When I’m gone.” 

“Hmm,” was all Tommy replied with. He lit his cigarette, inhaled it quickly and blew it out slow. Her hands trembled against the hard wooden armrests of the chair. She waited as he observed her, broken tooth and bloody mouth and tear tracks down her face. She waited to see a glimmer of sympathy cross his face. It did not. 

“You’re only doing the things I tell you to do, from now on,” Tommy told her, coldly, the end of his cigarette glowing orange as he inhaled it, and her heart felt like stone, her breath sticking in her throat. Then, after a pause, he spoke again. 

“You can go to America,” he said, and Lucy felt jerked like a ragdoll, from one precipice to the next. “I’ll set up a fund for your mother. We’ll take care of her.” 

“Why would you do that?” Lucy asked, her words wispy like Tommy’s smoke. 

“Because there’s another thing. The reason we’re talking right now,” Tommy said, and Lucy was spinning, trying to figure out what was left to say, what he could possibly want from her. He took another unhurried drag, letting her anxiety build. 

“You just heard Tessa confess to murder,” Tommy said, smoothly, and the shock hit Lucy in the chest. _Of course,_ Lucy thought. _Of course. Of course he’ll kill me, of course he only said those things to wind me up._ Tommy blew out his grey smoke through slightly pouted lips and shook his head. The air was cold around her, or maybe that was just his presence, leaving goosebumps up and down her arms. She thought briefly of her family, of her mother and all her siblings, what they would do without her. Tommy tilted his head slightly, like an animal regarding its prey. 

“Never been in love before,” he said, out of the blue, ignoring Lucy’s soft whimper. He smirked again, ticked his head, took a drag. “Not like this,” he muttered, eyes flickering down to his smoldering cigarette.

“They say it makes you do terrible things, eh? Love.” His odd musings were doing nothing to ease the fist clenched around Lucy’s heart, her panicked eyes flashing between him and the gun on the desk. He paid her no mind, talking with his hands a bit, tapping his ash out on the gun. “But it’s funny. And it’s funny, Lucy, ‘cause she’s the only thing I’ve ever done that _isn’t_ fucking terrible.” He took a step closer, slid the gun off the desk, Lucy choked on a sob. 

“I need you to know that, Lucy,” he said, his voice very quiet. “I need you to know that there is nothing, nothing in this world I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. Am I making sense to you?” He asked, and she nodded, frantically. He cocked the hammer. “So you go to America. Start a new life. Know that your family is being provided for.” He crouched down, to her eye level, his glowing eyes unblinking. “But if you _ever,”_ he said, low and terrifyingly serious, “speak to _anyone_ about what you heard here today, if you ever come anywhere near my family ever again, I’ll fucking find you. I’ll find your family. And I will bury you all alive.” He yanked her chin to the front with his hand. “Look at me.” She did, even though she didn’t want to, couldn’t stand to. She was alive with terror, she wanted to run, she wanted to escape. He still did not blink, inspecting her face, and then he nodded and pulled back suddenly. 

“I’ll let you know if I need you,” he said, standing, uncocking and holstering the gun, pulling on his jacket. Her limbs began to shake. He crossed the room in four strides, shoes clacking on the floor, pulled the door open.

“Oh, and Lucy?” He said, glancing behind him. “If anything goes wrong for me tonight, I’ll assume you had ulterior motives for your little visit, and that you came to find out confidential information. So that you could feed it to my enemies. Once a rat, always a rat, eh?” He turned to leave, and she cried out past her jumping, starting heart, 

“Thomas! Wait!” 

He did, only very barely, midstep. He did not turn. 

“There were men at the entrance when I arrived,” she warbled, like a broken bird. “They were passing around invitations. They had loads. They must have been fakes.”

Tommy froze, only a dark silhouette in the doorway. 

“They’re here?” he asked, his voice so hard she almost felt sorry for him. 

“They’re here,” she said, nodding although he couldn’t see her. Tommy turned and slammed the door behind him. Lucy began to sob. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was talking to some of you about doing a giveaway sort of thing once we reach a certain number of comments, because you guys are so so so good to me and I wanna make life a little bit better in any way I can. I was thinking of doing a one-shot/drabble of whatever missing moments/prompts you have for this story, whoever gets the 200th comment w/e would get to choose and Id write it for them. I don't usually do fic requests but im definitely willing to give it a go if it's something you'd be interested in!!
> 
> some more MCR for the next chapter (because there can never be enough). title is Professional Griefers


	10. Professional Griefers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like the sound of the broken pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick lil recap: 
> 
> The gang is at a party that is half staged trap for the Perish Judah, the German Fascists who the Blinders have been fighting for years, and half grand opening of the Shelby Motor Company. Tessa is pregnant, and was late to the party because she killed Jack Fischer, a journalist who aided in Ada's murder by agreeing to print her address in an expose he wrote to expose the criminal behavior of the Shelby's. Lucy Wong tells Tommy that the Germans have arrived to the party, right after he finds out Tessa murdered Jack. Tommy plans on using smoke grenades to evacuate the building and force the Perish onto the lawn, so that he and Arthur can wipe them out with an air strike from a fighter plane. Tessa is meant to be taken to a safe house before the bombs are deployed.

7:42 pm 

Tessa was standing with Arthur, Benson, and Michael, white silk gloves pulled over her bloody hands. She glanced demurely up at Tommy when she noticed him, tense and uncharacteristically silent. Someone tried to approach Tommy as he neared the place where the rest of them were gathered, but he smacked the hand placed on his shoulder off with more force than was really necessary, and continued on. Arthur began to speak in a low tone the moment Tommy was within earshot, his words clipped and hurried. 

“They’re here, Tom,” he said, and Tommy nodded sharply. 

“I know,” he said. He strode to Tessa, took her face in his hands, her cheeks soft against his palms, careful to avoid the dark bruise. He stared down into her eyes, the sunflower burst of yellow erased by huge black pupils. 

“You high?” he asked, with a nod. 

“Yeah,” she said, flatly. 

“Good,” he told her, and bent her head, kissed her on the crown, the scent of her hair, honeysuckle and oranges, expensive things from brighter places, filled his nostrils for a moment like a memory. “I’ll handle it, Lolo, yeah? I’ll take care of all of it. I’ll take care of you.” Her breath stuttered, and he tipped her chin back up. “You need to go now.” 

“Tommy, no-,” she gasped, but he spoke over her. 

“Get her out of here,” he said, stepping back and gesturing at his men. She immediately began to struggle, but all three had predicted it, and had her arms locked behind her back, Michael and Benson on either side, Arthur standing between her and Tommy. Tommy could see tears shining in her eyes past his brother’s shoulder, and the sight made something sharp twist in his ribcage. 

“ _Please_ don’t,” she said, and she did not beg often. She did not often need to. He gestured at his men with his fingers. 

“Benson, Michael, with her. Get her to a car, get her fucking safe. Arthur, stay with me. We need to see a man about some things that go boom.” He turned, because he couldn’t watch them drag her away. Arthur walked over and stood by his shoulder, his eternal right hand. They looked out into the milling crowd, both imagining the destruction of war across the glittering scene. Limbs severed, blood spilling, ceiling caving in. Bullets and fire and screams in the air. Tommy let out a tight sigh. 

“So, er,” Arthur said, a feeble attempt at humor, “when’s the wedding?” 

Tommy dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. His Colt nudged him.

“Soon,” he said. Arthur nodded, like that wasn’t the response he had expected, but also like it didn’t surprise him. 

“Well, that’s good, then. That’s real good. Going to need it,” he said, and Tommy made an affirming expression. “I’ll be there, bruva,” Arthur promised, clapping him on the shoulder. Tommy felt a sudden, shocking tightness in his throat. He traced his cigarette across his lips to moisten it, and nodded. 

“Tommy!” John called, pushing through the crowd, his normally jovial face blanched. “Tom, I need to talk to you-,” he said, and Arthur took one look at his brother’s face, and closed his eyes, muttering, 

“Ah, fuck.” 

  
  


7:45 pm 

  
  


“What do you _mean_ the grenades are fucking duds?” Tommy said in an undertone, so quickly it almost sounded like one, long word. John glanced around, speaking quietly to be sure to avoid eavesdroppers. 

“I just checked ‘em. Damp like a watery grave. Someone’s fucking gotten in, Tom-,” 

“Fuck,” Tommy hissed through his teeth. He pressed his fingers against his eyes, said, “Fuck!” again. He led his brothers briskly back underneath the nearest set of metal arches that held up the ceiling, his shoulders stiff and square. Arthur followed at his heels, nervously eyeing the back of his brother’s half-shaved head, his fingers flickering against the stiff cuff of his tux. Tommy would have another plan. Tommy would get them out, Tommy would solve it. Arthur felt a shallow fluttering of guilt for relying on his baby brother, it should be him, should be his job, but as he watched Tommy’s glittering blue eyes scan the room over his shoulder, he admitted to himself that he didn’t really want it. Didn’t want the ten-tonne weight of his family’s safety resting on his shoulders. He didn’t really want it, he never really had, and a voice deep down that he tried to smother knew he couldn’t have done it. That without Tommy, they would all be hunkered in a shack somewhere, likely barefoot, at the rate they had been going during the war. The guilt faded and was replaced by something that Arthur dimly registered as gratitude. His little brother glanced down at his cigarette case, took one out, still documenting the guests, evaluating the situation, ready, again, to lead them into battle. He lit his smoke. 

“Alright, listen to me,” he said, into his cupped hand, protecting the flame of his lighter. He took a drag. “There is a plan B.”

Arthur chuckled appreciatively. “I considered the possibility that our plans would be leaked, so I have… contingencies. But we have to act fast, and we must give them _no_ inclination that we know about the snitch.” John was nodding, his brow furrowed. The toothpick he had plucked from one of the long tables leaden with food twitched between his teeth. “I need the Perish on the lawn and the guests evacuated. John, have Michael get twelve boys and twelve bottles, cut up their suits if you have to. Staging and painting shops, yeah?” John nodded again, a glint in his eyes. “Then you go with Arthur to the Biff.” 

“Me?” John asked, taken aback, his eyes wide. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was excitement or trepidation. 

“You said it yourself that you’re the only one ‘cides me can shoot that fucking gun,” Tommy said, his jaw tight and set. “Flexible full-auto Lewis. You’ll have the time of your life,” he told John, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’ve ‘eard that before,” John muttered. 

“Arthur, go find Tessa. Bring her to me, I need to speak with her.” 

“But Tom- you said-,” 

“I know what I said,” Tommy snapped. “The situation has changed. Now go get her, stop her fucking leaving, and _bring her here._ Then meet John at the door. Alright?” 

“Alright, brother, alright,” Arthur said, raising his hands. Tommy’s eyes were lit with the same white-hot fire that had shown out of the darkness of the trenches. Like a racehorse in the gate. Arthur wondered if Tommy might pull him into an embrace, might tell him to be safe, but he only breathed out smoke through his nose like something inside him burned. 

“Find. _Tessa,”_ Tommy told him again, before pacing off into the milling crowd, and Arthur would have felt for Tessa, for having the all the heat of such a heart directed at her, had Tessa been any other girl. 

Her bright head shone out between the press of bodies, and he trailed after it, shoving his way past when necessary, catching glimpses and flashes of her hair like a copper lighthouse beam. He saw her snap her head around to bite something at Michael, whose eyes squinted in response, saw Benson put his hand on Tessa’s arm and turn her back to the doors, which were flanked by by walls draped in hundreds of yards of crimson silk, covering the dull grey of the building’s metal interior. Newly-installed windows shone high on the walls, letting in the moonlight, proclaiming _SHELBY MOTOR COMPANY_ on their exterior, the letters reflected backwards from the inside of the hangar. 

“Tessie! Tessa! Hold on a minute!” Arthur shouted, over the rather distinguished-looking heads of two old, white-haired men, who gave him matching expressions of disapproval, and he had to resist snapping his teeth at them. “Tessie!” 

He saw her turn, in a swish of dark velvet, saw the glitter of diamonds as she craned her neck to locate him. Michael attempted to continue to haul her forward for a moment before Arthur caught his eye with a wide wave that nearly knocked over a stout, middle-aged woman to his right, who said, “Well, my _goodness!”_ in a distraught tone. He navigated past her, lengthening his stride. 

“Come on, now, love, Tommy wants ya,” he said, once he had reached Tessa, proffering his hand, which she did not take. She raised an eyebrow, coming to a stop, Michael and Benson catching on and retracing their steps somewhat. 

“Where?” She asked. “Why?” Her slender arms folded, and Arthur very intentionally did not look at her chest. 

“Don’t know,” he told her. “Didn’t ask. Come on, now, hmm? He’s in a hurry.” Tessa made a confused face, her eyes bright with the light of her jewels, their indistinguishable shade reflecting the shimmering stones. Then she shrugged, something she must have picked up from all her time around the Shelby hedonism, managing to make even that look elegant. 

“Alright,” she said, and Arthur nodded, twitching his mustache. 

“Alright, love, just a moment, I’ll take you to him, yeah? Michael,” he said, motioning towards his cousin, whose expression quickly changed into mild surprise, and then changed again into something that would probably audibly translate into _“Here we fucking go”._

“Need you to do somethin’ for me,” Arthur said in an undertone, once they had taken a few steps into the background, Benson and Tessa both eyeing them very obviously. 

“Thought I was the distraction,” Michael muttered, and Arthur tutted. 

“Nah,” he said. “Nah. You’s the star now, Mikey,” and his cousin winced and scoffed, running a hand over his hair in a completely unnecessary attempt to smooth it back into place. He exhaled. 

“What do you need me to do?” he asked, and Arthur tapped his cheek sharply. 

“That’s right, boy, that’s the spirit, eh?” He said, proudly, before continuing in an even lower tone, keeping his voice down. “Our smoke grenades were duds, brother, somebody got in an’ fucking doused the fucking things. Need to get the collateral damage out. We need the _real_ thing now, son. Need you to get three of our boys and four bottles. Take the outbuildings and shops. Drive the bastards out of here.” Michael was nodding as he spoke, his keen eyes fixed and focused. “Hey. Michael.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, tightened his grip until he was squeezing with all of his strength. Michael’s face flickered, but his stare met his cousin’s. 

“You need to do this, hmm?” Arthur said, not quite a threat. A warning. An _If you want to get in…_ and Michael wanted in. “This is your chance, mate. Don’t disappoint ‘im.” 

Michael’s wide jaw flexed as he nodded, grey eyes hard. It was good, Arthur thought. It was time for him to learn. They turned back to Benson and Tessa, who were both still watching silently, not even pretending to give them privacy. 

“Where do you want me?” Benson asked, with the composure of the eternal soldier, his shoulders back and his gaze scanning the room. 

“You stay with her,” Arthur said, glancing at Tessa just in time to see Michael mouthing the word “Molotov” at her from slightly behind Benson’s turned shoulder. Tessa blinked with slow exasperation. “Apparently she and Tommy will both continue to enjoy the party.” 

Benson’s forehead creased in confusion. He took a step closer to mutter, “Thought Tommy was on the plane,” to Arthur, who snorted. 

“Yeah, well, that was five minutes ago, wasn’t it? Times, they are a-changin’. Come on, now, Tess.” Tessa slid her arms around Michael’s neck and gave him a quick squeeze that seemed to surprise her as much as it did him, but he gave her a brave, half-smile before nodding to Arthur. Tessa’s eyes followed him as he disappeared, her face white and expression the same as Polly’s had been when she had dropped Arthur and his brothers at the station when they left for France. Then her eyes fell to her gloved hands and her face closed. 

“You alright?” Arthur asked her, but she didn’t seem to hear him. “Er- Tessa?” 

“Blood for blood,” she said, barely above a whisper. “An eye for an eye.” She shook her head. “We are a vicious species, aren’t we?” 

Arthur cocked his head, completely lost. He couldn’t figure out how he was meant to respond, where the thought had come from, what she had meant by it. All he really knew was that it was relatively clear she was no longer thinking about Michael. Tessa flicked her head like she was trying to clear it, apparently coming back down to earth. 

“Yeah, well, you know, Tommy wanted you and like I said, ‘e was in a bit of an ‘urry,” Arthur said, “so, if we could-,” 

“Right,” Tessa said, suddenly clear and sharp again. “The king has summoned.” She fluttered her long fingers at the rest of the party, the guests in their finery, the night life beginning to glow. “Lead the way, then,” she said. 

  
  
  
  


“I have something to tell you,” Tommy said quietly, leading her by the hand onto the parting dancefloor as the occupants dispersed to make the space for a waltz. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.” 

Tessa sighed. 

  
  



	11. Sinners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh sinners, come down  
> Come gather 'round  
> Have a little fun before they put us in the ground  
> Dancing on cold feet  
> Marching on cobbled streets  
> Oh sinners come down
> 
> I must be good for something  
> Lets go have some fun before they put us in the ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I'VE BEEN GONE WRITING IS HARD  
> bunch of different, fun perspectives in this chapter to make up for it a bit <3

8:04pm

A dark car sped along a darker road, headlights swerving, glowing yellow in the black night. A man with blue eyes full of laughter sat in the passenger seat of the expensive vehicle, his gaze occasionally flicking over to the man to his left, who was driving at breakneck speed, a look of deep but distant concentration on his face, which was crinkled with concern. The other man, the younger one, spoke. 

“When the fuck did you become a pilot, anyway?” 

The driver sniffed, taking his hand briefly off the wheel to readjust his hat. 

“I didn’,” he admitted, looking amused rather than abashed. “Had a mate in the RFC, used to sneak me into the bays and let me have a go.” 

The passenger, whose face had a slight glow, stopped short, blinked for a moment, and began cackling. He drug his hands down his face, still laughing like he found this new information genuinely hilarious. 

“We’re going to fucking die,” He muttered, shaking his head. The other man clapped him on the shoulder, grinning, swerving around another corner. 

"Makes ya feel alive though, don't it?" He said, a maniacal glint in his eyes.   
  
  


8:04pm

“Alright?” Tommy was saying, and Tessa was nodding, and Michael’s hands were shaking as he approached them. Tessa looked about as steady as he felt when she turned to him, eyes wide and blinking, but then Tommy slid her hand into his, and she snapped back. 

“They’re ready, Tommy. Just waiting on your signal,” Michael said, trying to recreate the sort of things Arthur and John would have said to him. The war talk. 

“No signal,” Tommy said, quietly, reaching his free hand into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “It starts at nine. No matter what.” 

“No matter what? What does that mean?” Michael asked, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to. Tessa shook her head at him gently. Tommy didn’t respond, and Michael felt a brief flash of anger at his cousin, whose head was bowed over the lighter. 

“Where’s Benson?” Tommy said, to the floor. 

“By the door, where you left him,” Michael said, gesturing. Tommy blew smoke out over his shoulder, away from Tessa, who smiled slightly at the gesture. Tommy turned to her, keeping her fingers in his, the hand holding his cigarette also holding her arm, and Michael felt suddenly intrusive. 

“You all right?” He asked her, in a low tone, and she hesitated a moment before nodding, which Michael had no doubt Tommy had noticed. Tommy’s forehead frowned, and he looked at her for another moment. Took another drag of his cigarette. Tessa seemed like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words, and Michael remembered with a sudden jolt about the pregnancy, that Tommy still didn’t know, and he felt another jolt, this one of pride, for being privy to something, anything, that his cousin did not already know. And something so crucial, nonetheless. Tommy told her something, in an undertone, and this time her responding nod was stronger. 

“Michael,” Tommy addressed him sharply, his eyes still on Tessa. 

“Yes, sir?” Michael said, he wasn’t going to fuck this up. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. He was going to be one of them, finally, for real. 

“Get Tessa to Benson. Get her another drink,” Tommy said, and Michael nodded. 

“Of course, Tom,” he replied, but Tommy was making eye contact with a man across the room, who Michael didn’t recognize. The man lifted his glass and gave a sideways smirk. Tommy nodded back, then checked his pocketwatch. 

“Alright, it’s just past eight. Another hour until the main event,” Tommy said, pocketing his watch and tapping ash off the cigarette that was smoldering between his fingers, the dry smell of the smoke hovering in the air. Tessa’s slim shoulders rose with her quiet inhale. Tommy pressed a quick kiss to her temple. 

“There’s someone I have to talk to,” he said, no “I love you”, no “I’m sorry,” no “I’ll see you soon”. He was just gone, striding off into a crowd that parted around him like Moses and the red sea, their faces full of trepidation and jealousy. _How stupid are they,_ Michael thought, staring out into the crowd, _to judge a man for having that which they all secretly desire?_ Tessa stood silently at his shoulder, her copper hair pinned up in elegant spirals, the porcelain curve of her back and shoulders exposed by the draping material of her dress. 

“ _Are_ you alright?” Michael asked her, quietly. She was hard to predict, and it was possible she would not appreciate his prying. Her eyes flickered out across the faces of the guests, perfectly groomed, their clothes, perfectly tailored. At the lights and the glittering crystal vases filled with flowers, the sweet swell of music in the air. She sighed.

“Michael,” she said, sadly, “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I’ve ever been less alright in my entire life. And between you and me, that’s saying rather a lot.” 

Michael frowned. He supposed he ought to comfort her, but couldn’t even begin to fathom how. And that wasn’t really the biggest problem of the night, anyway. 

“Keep it together, Tess,” he said, instead, which in hindsight was probably not the right choice. Her stare snapped to him immediately. 

“Little boy,” she bit out, “your spine would snap under the weight of _half_ the shit on my back, you understand me?” 

He blinked at her, affronted, waiting for her to wilt, to apologize, like women usually did on the rare occasions they lost their temper. But not women like his mother. And not women like her. He was learning that. Her bright eyes were narrowed. 

“Take me back to Benson. Get me a drink. And don’t give me any more fucking masculine patronization,” she spat, turning towards the doors, leaving him to scamble to catch up, leaving him to remember her shouting down the great and powerful Thomas Shelby in his own house, to remember the way the brothers spoke of her with respect bordering on reverence, the way Polly always bought coffee to leave in Arrow House’s kitchen because she knew that Tessa drank it. He tried to imagine Tommy with another woman, Tommy with someone whose voice was as small as their form, and he suddenly couldn’t, and he remembered the way the crowd had instinctually parted for him as he passed, and watched as it did the same for her, and he grinned. 

  
  
  


8:08pm

“So,” Churchill said, over the rim of his champagne, “how goes it?” 

His casual phrasing made Tommy huff in amusement, tapping his ring against the side of his whisky, listening to the small _clink_ over the dull roar of the crowd and the music. 

“We ‘ave had some setbacks, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” he replied, smoothly. Churchill made a thoughtful sound. 

“It would appear that nothing is the only thing you can’t handle,” Churchill said, amicably, and Tommy raised his glass to him slightly, which made the older man smile, as if he was impressed with Tommy’s ability to keep up with his circular speech. 

“How are you and that woman?” 

“What woman?” Tommy asked, taking a sip from his glass. A gulp, really. Fuck the tofts and their opinions. 

Churchill tapped his cane on the floor with a dull _thump._ “The woman, the little redhead. You know who I mean. I do love women, Mr. Shelby,” he said, his slight lisp catching on the beginning of Tommy’s surname. 

“As do we all, Mr. Churchill,” Tommy agreed. Churchill _harrumphed._

“Not a very fluttery type, are you?” he shot at Tommy, his beady eyes examining him under brows that always looked slightly cocked. 

“No, sir, not very,” he said, reflecting on the odd feeling of the word “sir” in his mouth again, like he was back in the war. Others called him “sir”, now, not the other way around. Tommy wondered when he had forgotten to find that strange. 

“Not very talkative, either,” Churchill muttered, as if to himself, and Tommy’s lip twitched. “Your poor woman must have an absolutely miserable time prying words out of you. Tell me, is she forced to use a hook?” 

Tommy gave a reluctant smirk, took another drink. It was perhaps rude to not immediately respond to Churchill’s direct question, but it was, as they say, his party. 

“You know, Mr. Churchill,” he said, instead, “one of my friends is here tonight, I ought to introduce you. I believe the two of you would get along quite well.” 

“Why is that?” Churchill barked, taking a swig of champagne. Tommy smiled wider. 

“You share similar interests,” he told him, and Churchill grinned, tapping the side of his nose cheekily. 

  
  


8:13pm

“I’m sorry, forgive the intrusion,” a voice said, from behind Tessa’s shoulder. Benson’s eyes fixed warily on the newcomer, his hand reaching up slightly under his jacket. “I was wondering if I might speak to Miss Reilly for a moment.” 

“And who are you?” Benson snapped. Tessa put a hand on his arm. 

“Someone you would recognize if you were important enough,” he replied, in the same tone that Tommy said his own name. Benson blinked. 

“It’s alright, Benny,” Tessa said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “I’ll be just over there, yeah?” 

“Stay close,” Benson said, in a clipped tone, still watching Edward with a hawklike gaze. Edward raised his eyebrows slightly, offering Tessa his arm. 

“I can walk, thank you,” she said, her tone pleasant but her lips pressed tight. Edward only ticked his head in acknowledgement as they moved a few steps closer to a massive ice statue of a Shelby car that sparkled like it was carved from crystal. “What do you need?” 

Edward regarded the shimmering sculpture, and then her. He nodded to Benson, who was standing a few meters away, watching them with his arms crossed. “That man was awfully protective of you.” 

Tessa swallowed a laugh. “Christ, that’s nothing. Tommy is-,” and then she stopped, because she didn’t know this man, they weren’t friends, and she owed him no explanation for her amusement. 

“Is Thomas protective?” Edward asked, adjusting his cufflinks, which looked like they were made of onyx, engraved with an ornate "R". 

“I don’t require being looked after,” Tessa said, and then it was Edward’s turn to look privately amused. 

“Don’t you?” he asked, his accent sounding sharper than she remembered, as she had grown so used to the rough Brummie lilt. 

“No,” she snapped, but he still appeared unconcerned. 

“Then why are you being treated like you might at any moment be snatched away and stolen?” he questioned casually. Tessa pressed her wrist against the ice, felt the frozen temperature cool her racing pulse. The statue was so cold she could feel it radiating along her arms, giving her goosebumps. Her heart had been hammering ever since her conversation with Tommy as they danced, and showed no signs of ever slowing. 

“It’s been known to happen,” she said, rather less clearly than was entirely polite, avoiding Edward’s steely eyes, but he only hummed. “Now, _what is it that you need_?” 

Edward cleared his throat and, to her surprise, lifted his eyes from her for what felt like the first time and quickly scanned the crowd. His attention was as intense as Tommy’s, the same cold, electric crackle, but Edward’s was removed, as if he was separated from the world by a wall of wealth and power, whereas Tommy’s void swallowed everyone in his proximity whole, the slipping gravity of a black hole, a light so bright it was darkness. If Tommy’s energy was a lightning bolt, Edward was a steel train. 

“I needed to tell you something… sensitive,” Edward said, and Tessa cocked her head at him, her eyes narrowed. She had her gun on one thigh and her knife on the other, the gun was easier to access past the high slit, but the knife would be silent, Edward continued on. “I don’t know the extent of your involvement with the Shelby’s, but your ignorance could lead to your death. I know this may sound preposterous, but the Shelby’s are notorious. They are _dangerous,_ Miss Tessa, and they are planning something. Tonight.” 

Tessa’s breath froze in her chest, spreading out through her like the ice under her palm. “How do you _know_ about that-,” she choked out, reaching for her gun, but Edward grabbed her wrist. 

“You being pulled down by the wreckage caused by Thomas Shelby would be a waste, Tessa,” he muttered, “a lovely waste, but even still. Get out of this building and away from this family as quickly as you can.” Tessa went to yank her wrist from his grip, but he had already let go and taken a step back. 

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too late, Mr. Rockefeller,” she said, coldly, and Benson was suddenly by her side, bristling. 

“Get away from Tessa before I put a bullet into this sculpture. Through your skull,” Benson said, pointing at the glittering ice, which was beginning to drip. Edward ticked his head gracefully. 

“Good night, Tessa Reilly. I hope you make the right choice,” he said, evenly, before he turned and paced away, his fingers interlocked behind his back. 

“Who the fuck was that?” Benson asked, peering after him, brows low, and Tessa resisted the urge to drag her hand down her face, lest she smear her makeup. She popped her lips together instead, nails digging into her palms through her gloves again. 

  
  


8:15pm

“Edward Rockefeller,” she said, brisk and flat. Benson choked a little. 

“You mean like _the-,”_

“Yes, like Edward Rockefeller of _the_ Rockefellers,” she snapped. “How the _fuck_ he knows about the plan- I need to find Tommy, do you know where he-,” she said, begining several different trains of thought and then immediately jumping off of them. Then she grinned. “Ah,” she said, suddenly looking amused. “There he is.” 

“Who is that he’s talking to?” Benson asked, following her line of vision. Thomas was speaking to two men, who were both gesturing erratically, Benson thought he might have seen one mime grabbing breasts, while Tommy stood with a hand tucked in his pocket and a ghost of a grin on his face. Benson marvelled momentarily about his boss’s ability to keep his composure under pressure. For his part, Benson had been attempting to swallow his nausea all night. He felt sick as Tessa, who was, for some reason, smiling even wider. 

“Winston Churchill,” she said, smoothly, her straight teeth flashing as she grinned. Benson _was_ going to vomit. “Come on, I have to talk to Tom. And don’t worry, I’ll introduce you,” she said, teasingly, and he swallowed down a dry throat. 

“Lead the way, your highness,” he said sarcastically, gesturing with his hand, and Tessa laughed. 

  
  



	12. Take The Money and Crawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High on a low life  
> Hit me with a dull knife  
> Sweet soul sickness  
> Can I get a witness?
> 
> This is the wildlife, I'm gonna take a dive  
> Do I dare say "please" when I'm on my knees?  
> Take the money and crawl
> 
> Illegal tender, going on a bender  
> Cold-blooded killers  
> Of all motherfuckers
> 
> I'm a nervous wreck, enough to make you sick  
> Take the money and crawl  
> Oh yeah, it's just my luck, but I don't give a fuck  
> Take the money and crawl

8:20pm

Tessa was approaching, Tommy sensed it somehow, like his subconscious had memorized the pattern of her footsteps. He turned to face her, just as Alfie was in the middle of saying, 

“I’m standing here, right, and I’m telling you, mate, you want a good handful-,”

“Hear, hear!” Churchill said, toasting Alfie with his half-empty glass, a cheerful glow on his cheeks. 

Alfie very obviously noticed the new members of their party, but carried on anyway, “-these women nowadays, they don’t eat nothing but fucking snow, yeah? But the French women, right, they were raised on real fucking food, good food, you understand, not the pig shit you British bastards try to pass off as edible-,” instead of taking offence, Churchill grinned, Tessa was smirking slightly, Tommy cleared his throat loudly, speaking over his buisness partner. 

“Mr. Churchill, you remember Tessa Reilly,” he said, reaching out for Tessa’s waist as she approached him, an amused sparkle in her eye. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Churchill blustered, waving his hand dismissively. “I have quite the mind for faces, you know.” 

“Faces, eh?” Alfie sniffed, raising a scraggly eyebrow and tugging at his beard. Tommy’s fingers tightened slightly over the jut of Tessa’s hipbone, the press hard under soft velvet, but he gave no outward response, didn’t blink, didn’t bother. Tessa understood the dynamics, she understood the game. The men would use her as a pawn in their pissing match, half a show of power and half a test, and they would judge her reaction to the pressure. They saw being a woman as a weakness. But Tommy played chess, and he played well, because he knew what the most powerful piece was, and never once forgot it. 

“Yes, Tessa, always a pleasure,” Churchill said, reaching out to take her hand and smack a loud kiss on the back of it. Tommy was momentarily glad she was wearing her gloves, and not only to cover the blood. Tessa smiled demurely. 

“Good evening, sir. Hello again, Mr. Solomons,” she said, her voice clear like ringing crystal. 

“‘Ello,” Alfie grunted, readjusting his wool coat, which he was still wearing. It looked heavy and bulky in odd areas, but Alfie was hardly ever concerned with appearing inconspicuous, least of all now. 

“This is Benson, a friend of the family,” Tessa said, gesturing to her comrade, whose presence Tommy had only barely acknowledged. Tommy could practically smell his nerves, but to his credit, Benson was doing a decent job of camouflaging his apprehension. He gave Churchill a crisp salute, which Tommy thought was a nice touch. 

“Benson, what?” Churchill barked, peering out of inquisitive eyes from under heavy, serious brows. 

“Sir?” Benson said, face furrowing in confusion. 

“Benson, what is that? Surname, then? Christian name?” Churchill interrogated, and Tommy expected Benson to blanch and stammer. Tommy knew his full name, but he possessed no desire to interject himself into the conversation to expose another man’s personal information. It was a golden rule sort of thing. Benson only gave a small, self-deprecating smile. In the background, a sudden pound of the drums shook the wooden floor like the impact of a shell. Tommy began the mantra and didn’t flinch. _It’s just noise. It’s just noise._ Churchill’s keen, beady eyes met his for a moment, a very slight frown on the older man’s slightly doughy face, before his stare slid back to the tall man standing slightly outside of their little circle, like he wasn’t sure if he had been properly invited in. 

“Just Benson, sir,” he replied evenly, and Churchill lifted his chin lazily in apathetic concession. 

“So,” Tessa said, her lips quirked. “What is it you gentlemen were discussing before we interrupted? It seemed to be quite the engaging topic,” she asked, and Tommy coughed and said, 

“Whisky,” sharp and fast, which made her throw him a dubious, amused glance. 

“And all of its various, glorious uses, yeah,” Alfie agreed, nodding serenely. Tessa wrestled with a smirk, fixing her gaze on the band playing several meters away. Alfie reached up a hand to scratch at his irritated skin, then pointed at her. Tommy sighed and rolled his eyes, Tessa lifted her face up to meet Alfie’s stare, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in response to his accusatory finger. 

“So, did you or did you not provide that random lady the courtesy of some _pro bono_ dentistry, there, treacle?” He asked, in the same carefully measured tone, with the smug face of the man who knocked over the first domino, folding his hands over his cane, the crown tattoo on his thumb flashing alongside his many heavy rings. Tommy had always internally assumed that Alfie’s limp was mostly for show, that his cane had much more violently useful purposes than walking assistance, and that he chose his jewelry based on heft alone. “‘How’s them knuckles feeling, eh?” 

Tommy remained completely still, his hands clasped in front of him. Churchill’s expression was carefully blank, his previous humor dispersed through the thick air. Tessa’s finely carved chin was lifted confidently, the line of her nose straight and even, the purple of the bruise on her cheek making her eyes greener against it. It occured to Tommy that all of the people attending their little pow-wow, with the exclusion of Benson, who seemed to prefer being excluded anyway, were treating the conversation like they were sat around a card table on the back of a million-pound ante. 

“I haven’t the faintest what you mean,” she said, laying in the perfect dose of perplexion, and it struck Tommy that when she wanted to, Tessa lied nearly as easily as he did. The knowledge left an itchy sensation in the back of his mind. The drum beat in a vibrating, staccato rhythm. _It’s just noise._

“My mistake, then, right, my mistake. Must’ve been thinking of someone else.” Alfie’s cheek twitched. “Been eating too much of my own bread, I think,” he said, and if Tommy had not currently been incredibly aggravated towards him, he might have smiled at the joke that Alfie knew only Tommy would understand. Alfie didn’t “eat bread”, or even make it in the first place. Churchill was regarding Tessa with his head slightly cocked, like a curious animal, a wolverine that seemed harmless until it showed its teeth, and Tommy wished that Tessa’s apparent ability for deception was being put up against any other fucker on the planet, on this night, of all nights. If Churchill saw anything on her pale face, he did not blink. 

“Interesting,” was all he murmured, and Tessa gave a gracious, placating smile. 

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen-,” she said, Alfie snorted at the word, “but I need to talk to Thomas alone for a moment. Something’s gone wrong with the catering.” She widened her eyes at Tommy a bit, meaningfully, jerking her head towards the dancefloor slightly, but Alfie interrupted with a raised voice. 

“Well, if it’s about the food, you needs best tell all of us, then, me thinks. Seeing how it _is_ a matter of utmost fucking importance, right?” he said, sharply, his tone suddenly hard and edged. Tessa looked at Tommy, waited for her cue, and impressed him by doing so. He drug a weary hand down his face. 

“‘S alright,” he said. “You can tell them. What is it?” 

Tessa braced herself, he could feel the tension in her body beside him. “Edward Rockefeller knows about the plan. He just warned me, told me to leave.” 

After the news of the dud bombs, sending his brother to man a gun that Tommy was only halfway confident he could handle, and the fact that every moment Tessa spent at the party was a moment closer to her being caught in the middle of a firefight, this was not the information he wanted to hear. The evidence already pointed to the Blinders having a snitch in the ranks who aided the Germans, told them about the invitations and got them inside, but having random guests somehow inexplicably knowing about his plans made Tommy deeply uneasy. The real question, however, the question that really mattered, was not _if_ they knew, but _what_ they knew. If the Perish had somehow been alerted to Tommy’s aerodynamic plans, they would lose their element of surprise, and he would watch as his brothers were shot out of the sky. Tommy had no delusions about that. Tessa was watching him, watching for the reaction he did not give, her beautiful face tense with concern. Tommy just blinked to show he had heard her. Their merry gathering fell silent, Alfie’s eyes travelling from Tommy to Tessa and then back again. 

“Mr. Rockefeller is a supporter of the German cause,” Churchill said, rather loudly and rather out of the blue, as if he had been deliberating letting them all in on the secret, pulling a massively thick cigar from an even bigger case that looked like it shouldn’t have been able to fit in his pocket. He twirled it between his heavy fingers, surprisingly dexterously, and continued speaking in his odd, clipped tone. “He has an agreement with them that involves the export of massive amounts of petroleum with promises of a complete lack of competition in exchange for fiscal, social, and public support.” 

“Another fucking enemy,” Tommy said, quietly, scoffing under his breath. Tessa looked rather faint, whether at the prospect of the family potentially becoming entangled in a global power struggle or because of the knowledge of just who that struggle would be against, he couldn’t have said. The concept did not appeal to him either. Not in the fucking slightest. He had moves to make that he didn’t need to have blocked by animosity from an incredibly powerful American conglomerate, and he had a very critical night to get through for that such a conflict to even have the opportunity to become an issue. As incredibly unappealing as the thought was, the rest of his night was likely to be exponentially worse, so Tommy decided that dealing with any of the issues that _could_ be handled at another time _would_ be, and that he wasn’t going to try to locate the narc in his forces _and_ try to take on the Rockefellers while so much other shit was going on, and going wrong. These issues would be dealt with, but at a time when Tessa and Polly were safely inside a guarded and locked building that wasn’t meant to be the site of a sneak air raid in under an hour. His heart clenched painfully, missing a beat. _Don’t think about the spy,_ Tommy thought. _Don’t think about the fucking Rockefellers. Don’t think about the coppers coming for Tess, or John and Arthur getting shot down, think about Ada. Just think about Ada. It’s just noise._ Alfie was now glaring distrustingly at Churchill, mentally working through the new information just like Tommy already had. 

“How’d you know about that, mate?” he asked, his tone indicating that he had already made his own assumptions, but Churchill’s deep-set eyes narrowed. 

“It’s my job to know things, Mr. Solomons. You would do well to remember that.” Churchill lit his massive cigar, which was so large it took several seconds for the embers to take, with an air of complete ease, and Alfie crossed his thick arms but did not speak, which Tommy was more than slightly relieved by. Benson shifted uneasily, still keeping himself slightly in the background. Churchill’s lined mouth puffed softly on his cigar, a splash of enthusiastic laughter burst over the heads of the crowd from somewhere else in the room like a wizzbang. For a moment, Tommy was lost, looking at the huge hanger through the eyes of his eleven-year-old-self, a Tommy who didn’t have any shoes on his feet, wearing clothing that was little better than rags, skinny and hungry and so afraid all the time that nothing ever scared him at all. The scene shimmered in front of him like a desert mirage, like it wasn’t real, like it couldn’t possibly be real. Tessa looked rather the same way, her perfectly balanced profile catching in the corner of his eye, her colors nearly glowing in their brightness, porcelain white skin and hair like fire. 

“Well,” Churchill said, “I think it’s about time for me to be off. Wise old men like me know the best party is the one you leave early.” He blew a leisurely, perfect smoke ring, which wafted slowly past Alfie’s dangerously lowered brows before dissipating. “Sir,” he nodded to Alfie, who gave a grudging jerk of his head in response, “and lady,” he tossed a wink to Tessa, who smiled, “it has been my very great pleasure.” Another puff. Something gave Tommy the impression that Churchill would have made a fine commander in the war. The jumpy ones spread their fear through their troops like a disease. Churchill’s cunning, foxlike eyes turned to him. “Mr. Shelby, would you do me the service of accompanying me to my vehicle?” 

“Of course, sir,” Tommy said, catching Benson’s stare from over Tessa’s head and then dropping his eyes to her and back up. Benson nodded. Tommy made a mental note to give him a raise, if he was alive enough to do so. If Benson was alive enough to receive it. A trumpet blared like a siren. “Just a moment.” He leaned in to Alfie, who smelled slightly earthy, like baking spice. “Your men in position?” he muttered, close enough to sense rather than see Alfie’s nod. 

“Yeah, yeah, they’re all here, probably about to waste their fucking lives on your little premeditated fucking disaster,” Alfie muttered agitatedly, and Tommy had to feel around past the knives in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. 

“Tell ‘em when it’s over, I’ll buy ‘em all new fucking cars,” he replied, from around the smoke balanced between his teeth, and Alfie grunted. 

“Thought you was supposed to be drawing shapes in the sky right about now, hmm?” he said, but Tommy shook his head quickly. Churchill was waiting for him, not looking impatient but instead calculating, like he was judging judging judging Tommy, not just for his companions but his abilities. Tommy lit and inhaled. 

“Smoke grenades were fucking duds. I need to stay, cause a distraction. John’s in the air,” Tommy relayed, in precise syllables, not mentioning the spy in their ranks, not knowing if Alfie already knew. If Alfie had planned it, if he was a part of it somehow. Tommy tried to find a crack in the other man’s carefully blank expression, but Alfie only frowned and sniffed, said, 

“‘You got one in the chamber, Tom?” A _Do you have a backup plan, are you still in control, is the situation handled?_ And Tommy nodded again, sharply. Alfie had nearly as much at stake tonight as he did. Self-sabotage made no sense, and Alfie Solomons was not a stupid man. Tommy made up his mind. 

“There’s something else we need to discuss when I return. Oh, and Alfie?” 

“What, what is it,” he muttered in reply, distractedly, eyeing some passing guests who came too close to him as they maneuvered by with an expression of distrust bordering on paranoia. 

“Keep an eye on her,” Tommy said, looking to his left, where Tessa had realized Tommy’s need for a moment of distraction and was currently engaging Churchill in conversation with a flattering remark and bright smile, and Alfie turned to see who Tommy was referencing, as if there was any question. 

“Right,” Alfie said, dubiously. “Let me ask you something, Tom, and I want you to really, seriously think about your answer, alright?” His eyebrows pulled together over grey-blue eyes. “Do I look like a fucking maid to you, right now? Did I forget to take my apron off this morning and somehow you’ve become fucking confused?” 

Tommy reached into his jacket again, pulled out an envelope. Churchill’s eyes followed his movements like the sight on a rifle. “This is five of what I owe you,” he said, his head bowed, keeping his back to the rest of the room. “There’s ten times that waiting for you in the boot of a shining Shelby car, straight off the line. Now fucking _watch her,”_ he said, sliding the envelope into Alfie’s eager hand. 

“Alright, you fucking Brum bastard,” he said, the hesitation that he had been displaying on his face all evening lifting somewhat. “But I got to tell you, mate, she tries to hit anyone else, right, and I am not getting in between that at-fucking-all, so just know that, yeah? Because that’s a lot to ask of a fellow who’s already given you so much thankless support.” 

“There's your thanks,” Tommy said, gesturing at the thick manilla envelope. Alfie grinned. 

“Right, yeah,” he said, testing its weight in his palm, and Tommy turned and walked back to Churchill, offering his apologies, sending Tessa a quick, grateful glance. She did not smile at him as he had hoped she would, and it bothered him just as much as all the other shit did, but he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t worry about it. Didn’t have the time to worry about her coming out of all of this whole, in body and mind, didn’t have the ability to really consider the possibilities and still be able to do what he needed to, still be able to continue on. She pressed her red lips together, eyes dark and wide. Churchill gave Tessa and Alfie one last nod before turning away, and Tommy followed. He restrained the pace of his footsteps to fall in line with Churchill’s steady plod, his eyes scanning every guest they passed in their journey to the doors, searching, waiting. _It’s just noise._ The band played on. 

“Mr. Solomons?” Churchill called loudly, over his shoulder. “I hope that dog of yours is in good health. Cyril, that’s it’s name, isn’t it?” He asked, his tone flat and serious, and then he turned forward again and continued walking on, Alfie’s crinkled face flashing between the press of bodies in Tommy’s line of sight behind his back. _Boom boom boom_ went the kicking drum, the swirling opulence swimming in his view, a rainbow of color and precious metals and music floating over lifted voices. Tommy paced beside Churchill’s large form towards the bay doors, which led out into the overcast night, finding himself unable to be apprehensive about whatever it was Churchill wanted to discuss, because the only thing that could rattle his bones at the moment would be a bullet through them. But in the quiet of the night, the world seemed colder, like there were hunkered monsters waiting, shadowed against the black horizon, and Tommy suppressed a shiver. 

8:39pm 

"Tell me something, Thomas," Churchill said, surprising Tommy entirely by using his first name. His fingers clenched. Churchill's red cigar glowed like a comet. "Did that little redhead of yours commit some form of battery?"

His fist tightened. He kept his breathing even. He blinked, and didn't respond. 

"That odd Jewish fellow said she broke someone's tooth." 

Tommy worked his jaw. Churchill started to chuckle, and Tommy's stare snapped to him, ready for a threat, for blackmail, and Churchill huffed indignantly, confusing and concerning Tommy even further, what the fuck was going on-,

"Come on now, Thomas," Churchill said, rather grumpily. "For Christ's sake, it's _funny."_

Tommy blinked twice, rapidly, only very barely stopped himself from saying “What?”. Instead, he ran his tongue across his teeth, then clicked it. 

“She knocked it out,” he admitted, with a crooked smirk, and Churchill released a loud, rough bark of laughter that he did nothing to suppress. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi my babies!! sorry about the (for me) long pauses between chapters, let me just say that these next few chapters will not be easy, which is why they've been taking longer. wish me luck lmao


	13. Seven Nation Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna fight 'em all  
> A seven nation army couldn't hold me back  
> They're gonna rip it off  
> Taking their time right behind my back
> 
> And I'm talking to myself at night  
> Because I can't forget  
> Back and forth through my mind  
> Behind a cigarette
> 
> And the message coming from my eyes  
> Says leave it alone  
> Don't wanna hear about it  
> Every single one's got a story to tell  
> Everyone knows about it  
> From the Queen of England to the hounds of Hell
> 
> And if I catch you coming back my way  
> I'm gonna serve it to you  
> And that ain't what you want to hear  
> But that's what I'll do

8:40pm 

“Arthur,” John called, his voice echoing around the mostly-empty room, disembodied. “You sure this thing will even get off the fucking ground?” 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘o course,” Arthur said loudly, flipping his hand distractedly, even though his brother couldn’t see him. “Been rebuilt. Prime shape. No need to worry. She’s just been sittin’ for a while, ‘aven’t ya, girl?” He patted the cold steel of the plane’s belly above him. The dull sound echoed like their voices, overlapping with the murmur of Charlie and Curly’s quiet tones in the background, through the dust that had gathered on the surfaces of the old barn. Tommy had brought in a comrade from the war to inspect the plane. He had found and purchased the barn to store it, under an alias so to ensure it could never be traced back to him. And he had given Arthur the task of locating and exposing the plane’s serial number, which Arthur had, of course, resisted. 

“You  _ want _ to get nicked for stealing a fucking plane, Tom? They’ll put us away for good, bruva, you think you can stop that?” he had asked, spluttering in disbelief. Tommy had just glared. “Not us,” he had said, vaguely, and then he had grabbed his cap from the desk and pulled it low down over his gleaming eyes. “Do as I say,” he continued, with a gloved finger lifted in warning, and then in a swing of his long black coat he had been out of the office and gone. 

So Arthur was looking for the fucking serial number, his nerves alight with anxious energy. 

In the war, the plane had been shot down and then rebuilt, except that it had been completed not two days before the war ended, and so had never made the journey back across the skies and had never been cleared for takeoff. Legally, it did not exist. Why Tommy would want to reverse and expose something that so obviously benefitted him was beyond Arthur, but most of the things Tommy did were way beyond him. That’s why Tommy was the boss. Arthur inspected the smooth white paint of the tail, crouching down to locate the number. His fingers slid over the perfectly even surface, and then caught. Part had been sanded down and repainted. Arthur took off his cap, exposing the silver blade hidden in the brim, beginning to scratch off the thick layer of white paint, and beginning to grin as he did so. 

“John!”

“What!” Came the short reply from the rear pit of the Biff. 

“Go call Tommy, tell the bloody madman I’ve found ‘is fucking serial number.” 

John’s head popped comically up from where he had been leaning over the gleaming Lewis gun. 

“The fuck does he want the serial number for?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” Arthur said, throwing up his hands. “Why would I fucking know? Just go call and tell ‘im, quick as you can. You and me got ten minutes before takeoff.” 

“Aye-aye, Commander Shelby,” John called jovially, leaping from the Biff, already high on adrenaline. Curly and Charlie’s voices floated in through the open door, bringing back the fuel Arthur had sent them for. Arthur turned back, kept cutting the paint away, humming a jerky military tune under his breath, a trench song. He finished exposing the imprint of where the old number had been pressed into the Biff’s metal side, took out a pen and a slip of paper from his pocket. He wrote the number down, slipped it back. 

“John!” he shouted. 

“What?” Came the even more distant and even more disgruntled reply. 

“Time to go!” Arthur said, checking the his watch so often he wasn’t even bothering to repocket it. 

“Just give me a fucking  _ moment,  _ would you?” John hollered back, his voice muffled by a crumpling wooden wall as he stood behind it and held a telephone receiver to his ear. Tommy had had one installed in the old barn’s tack room, and Arthur could see his brother’s distorted reflection in the waxy glass window, his youthful face serious. “I’m trying to reach Tommy, he’s- wait, Tom? Tom, yeah, it’s me. We’re in position. Arthur said he found the thing you asked him to.” He replied to something else that sounded like it had been a question, but Arthur couldn’t hear him over the clanging of his footsteps on the steel rails as he climbed into the cockpit. 

  
  


“Alright, Sergeant Major,” John said, hanging up the phone with so much nervous force that it jolted the wall. “Fuck,” he muttered carelessly, running his fingers back through his neatly combed hair, disheveing it. He cleared his throat, shook the energy out of his limbs, and swaggered back into the barn. He took a deep breath. 

“Tell me, Charlie,” He said brightly, clapping his uncle on the shoulder. Charlie’s permanent frown was more pronounced than John had ever seen it, which was really saying something. John used to steal his gun and shoot at paper boats he sent drifting down the cut. Charlie had frowned quite hard at that. 

“Biff’s loaded,” Charlie said, in a gruff voice to match his displeased expression. “Got all the fuel and ammunition a man could ever fucking need.” 

“Just need a woman in there and we’d be set forever, eh, uncle?” John joked, but Charlie ignored him, turning his glare to the plane, where Arthur was pulling on an aviation cap in the open cockpit. John didn’t really understand the point of wearing helmets in fighter planes. Surely if you were going down in one of those, one measly little helmet wasn’t like to save you. 

“Plane looks like a fucking wreck, but Curly just gave it a look.” Charlie took a sharp puff of his cigarette, his weathered face darkened by shadows. 

“What’d he say?” 

“Said Tommy should know better than to try to fly with metal wings.” He replied, and John snorted. “But he didn’t see anything. You boys’ll be alright.” He did not look like he believed it, and John’s stomach twisted like his guts were wriggling snakes. 

“John! Get the fuck up here, or I’m taking Curly instead!” Arthur barked, pulling a pair of brown goggles down over his eyes. Combined with his mustache, the effect was rather amusing. John smirked, catching Curly’s terrified expression as he rounded the side of the Biff, ducking under one of the wings. 

“You’d best go, John, he sounds very serious,” Curly muttered as he approached, throwing a cautious glance at Arthur, who was swiveling his mounted Vickers, peering down the scope. 

“Don’t worry, Curly,” John said, grabbing onto the ladder and hoisting himself up. “Shelby brothers would never fucking desert each other. Isn’t that right, Arthur?” he called, and Arthur waved him off. 

“Yeah, yeah, get on the fuckin’ gun, would you?” He said, starting the engine with a billowing roar that drowned out John’s laugh. 

  
  


8:49pm 

  
  


Tessa was trying to remember a time in her life when she had ever felt even a semblance of the apprehension that was currently flowing through her, and was coming up short. She had been kidnapped by Germans (intentionally, but even still) and even then she hadn’t felt this level of fluttering fear, her stomach swooping like she kept missing a step walking down stairs. Her snow was all gone and she was cursing herself for it, but the tension in her muscles gave her energy enough, winding her tightly like a spring about to release. Tommy stood at an alcove that hid a telephone near the entrance bay, his mostly-shaved head bowed, the rest of his fluttery stock of dark hair looking elegantly windswept. Tessa was tapping her foot and fingers, black heel clicking dully against the soft grain of the worn wooden floor, diamonds on her fingers and wrists catching the low light and throwing off sparkles like sparks. Tommy was barely talking, as he was wont to do, standing stock-still and listening, instead of doing the subconscious head-nod most people unintentionally participated in while on the line. It was like he was always in control of every little piece of himself, like there weren’t any subliminal thoughts with him, like he had wrapped an iron fist around his mind like he did everything else in his life. Tessa had never been able to not feel. She could hide it, sometimes. Not as well as him. No one did it as well as him. But she always felt it. She wasn’t sure what sounded more exhausting, staring at the sun or never being able to open your eyes. She wasn’t sure if she pitied or envied Tommy, for his cold burn. He rather awed her, in either case. Michael and Polly stood a few yards away, down the empty hallway that was cast in long dark shadows, conversing in low tones. Both of their arms were crossed, Polly’s clenched tight around her torso, fiddling with the embroidered material of her silver dress. 

The sharp clack of Tommy’s expensive shoes jerked Tessa’s attention back, and his brilliant stare was like a lighthouse beam as he approached her. 

“John,” he said to the three of them, deep voice echoing off the sheet metal walls. Without the decorations of the main hanger, the building was square and industrial, all shades of brown and grey. The windows into a few of the rooms were milky with age, unlike the glittering new panes proudly displayed in the main hanger. “He and Arthur are about to take off. We have ten minutes. I’m not going to ask you if you’re ready, because it doesn’t fucking matter.” 

Polly released a tight, shaky sigh. She was holding her beaded clutch with white knuckles, and Tessa had no doubt that the dainty golden clasp was all that was hiding a gun. Michael was nodding, his young, handsome face pale but set. 

“Good,” Tommy said, briskly, pulling out his cigarettes. The case snapped open with a metallic click, followed by a similar sound from the flick of his lighter. “Tessa, Michael, give us a moment, eh?” he asked, and Tessa and Michael shared a glance. Tessa jerked her head at him slightly, but he turned to Tommy, a resolute expression on his face. Tessa wanted to wince. 

“Why?” Michael said, shortly, and Tommy stared at him for a moment before quirking an eyebrow in a precise motion, like the question had surprised him, and not in a pleasant way. 

“I need to talk to me Aunt,” he said, his tone flat and impatient. Tessa moved forward and took Michael’s hand, which was large and soft, and tugged him slightly. Polly’s expression soured, but she quickly wiped her face clean. 

“Come on. You still owe me a drink,” she said, and Michael hesitated, his gaze stuck on his mother, but Polly gave him a smile that was somehow both sly and comforting. Tommy’s eyes slid to where Tessa’s hand held Michael’s, but he just took another drag of his cigarette with a slow french inhale like he had all the time but none of the cares in the world, his lips plush and full and the cut angle of his jaw set. Michael turned reluctantly, tossing a glance back over his shoulder once they had reached the end of the hall. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of COURSE I used Seven Nation Army in this story, I mean, come on. the only real surprise is that I didn't use it sooner lmao. I know this chapter is super short, but the next three or so are almost ready to go, so BRACE YOURSELVES ooh hoo hoo


	14. Little Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I've been losing my mind, running out of faith  
> Lonely, I've been feeling lonely, put me in my place  
> No sleep, got another nosebleed, I can't feel my face  
> So fuck you, I don't even like you, sick of all the fake 
> 
> No escape  
> I've got to get away a little faster  
> Run, you little bastards  
> Run, run, you little bastards!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay fine here's another lil one bc you guys have been so good and patient and I know I'm torturing you with all this build-up. swear to god it'll be worth it, tho <3 (hope so, anyway)

8:50pm 

“The fuck is that about?” Michael asked, and Tessa just shook her head ruefully. 

“I’m learning it’s best not to ask,” Tessa replied, and pulled at his hand to get him to continue walking, even though if she had to wager a guess, she thought she probably could, and wondered vaguely if she was next in line to face Tommy Shelby’s wrath. Her stomach twisted again, as it had been all evening, and she closed her eyes against the nauseous waves. She and Michael halted wordlessly at the end of the hallway, lingering in the shadows and staring out into the sea of people visible through the nearest open door, catching flashes of bright dresses and dark suits. Michael took out a cigarette and had to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention as she screened the few members of the crowd she could see, waiting, waiting. 

“Fag?” he asked, and she took his proffered smoke with a quiet word of gratitude, held still as he lit it for her. Tessa was having difficulty discerning whether her incredible unease was due to fear or a result of the effects of the pregnancy. Having never been pregnant before, she couldn’t quite say. Having never been quite this afraid before, she couldn’t tell that, either. _Such enjoyable new experiences I’m having tonight,_ she thought, letting the smoke trickle down her throat and ease the thrumming of her blood slightly. _Perhaps, when we find the Perish, I’ll just vomit all over them. Ought to scare them off._ Michael was still silent, his clever eyes narrowed, the sound of the party beyond them distant, as if from another life. Tommy’s rough, rolling voice filtered down from the opposite direction, both his words and his tone indistinct. Michael was clearly listening hard, but Tessa didn’t bother. She would have put twenty quid on being able to predict how exactly that conversation would go. Michael spoke suddenly. 

“If he so much as lays a _finger_ on my mum, I swear to God-,” he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw, but Tessa scoffed and spoke over his unfinished threats. 

“He’s not going to hurt Polly,” she said, “Jesus Christ, Michael.” 

“You don’t know that,” Michael said grimly, taking his cigarette out in order to do so. Tessa stared at him, incredulous. 

“Er,” she said, nonplussed. “Yes, I do, actually. As should you. Everything Tommy does is to keep us safe.” 

“No,” Michael countered, his eyes flashing and his tone bitter. “Everything Tommy does is to keep _you_ safe.” 

Tessa scoffed indignantly. “That is _not_ fucking-,” 

“Don’t be naive, Tess.” Tension was etched into the furrow of Michael’s brow, the slight sheen of sweat along his hairline. “I know about Fischer. My mum told me. And neither of us have forgotten about the pregnancy, either. What do you think Tommy would do if he found out about all the things my mum’s been hiding from him, for you? Who do you think he’ll blame?” 

“Polly isn’t making those decisions because of me,” Tessa said, wondering how true her words really were. “And Tommy already found out about Jack, anyway. As for the other thing, that isn’t anyone’s fucking business except for Tommy and I, so he can’t possibly fault _her_ for it.”

“Tommy _what?”_ Michael asked, an expression of surprise crossing his face. “So that’s what he wanted to speak to her about,” he said, connecting the pieces quickly. “Fuck.” He shook his head, closed his eyes for just a moment, and then opened them again, pointing at Tessa with an accusing finger. “And for the record, the “other thing” is anyone’s business who knows about it, which, let me remind you, does _not_ include Tommy, and right now would be the worst possible fucking time for him to discover it.” 

“I _know,”_ snapped Tessa, “and so does Polly, she’s not an idiot, she’s not going to fucking tell him.” Tessa tossed her head to shake a curling strand of red out of her face. “Look, Mikey, we have about ten minutes before all hell breaks loose, can you worry about this some other time? As in _any_ other time?” 

“No, I’m worried about it _now,_ while my mum is alone with a maniac,” Michael said, trying to shoulder past her, but Tessa shot out her arm, which looked thin and pale in front of Michael’s broad, black tuxedo-clad shoulders. 

“Michael, don’t-, it’s _all right,_ Michael-,” and to her relief, he stopped shoving, but then turned his anger and fear onto her instead. 

“Since when do you fucking do everything he tells you to, huh?” he lashed at her like he was brandishing a whip, so close she could see the scar above the bridge of his nose, the twitch of his eye. “You’re the one who’s supposed to stand up to him, Tess, you’re the only one he’ll listen to, and now you’re just letting my mum take the fall for you-,”

“Michael, that is _not what’s happening,_ he’s just _talking_ to her, you’re not thinking straight, he’s not-,” 

“ _You_ killed Fischer,” Michael said, jabbing the fingers holding his cigarette at her, “and now that he’s angry you’re rolling over like a dog, obeying his every command like everyone else-,” 

“MICHAEL!” Tessa shouted, drowning him out, “We would be DEAD without him! All of us, dead and in the ground, just like Ada!” She lowered her voice to barely above a hiss. “So you do _everything_ he says, or you consider your alternatives, because none of them are pretty.” 

“And that’s what you’re going to do, is it?” Michael challenged, and when she hesitated, unable to respond, he brushed past her, leaving her alone in the corner before the hallway, pressing her fingers against her temples, feeling like she was coming apart at the seams. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, and this is completely unrelated to like, everything ever, but I am really not a fan of fan fiction.net. I like kind of tried to post my shit on there and then basically just gave up because everything about it is pretty much horrible. thank god for AO3, am I right? also thank god for my readers, WHOMST I ADORE, hope you've brought your seatbelts bc we are quickly counting down to when shit is about to pop off. all my love, babies!!
> 
> Next chapter is called Bad Moon Rising and it's about three times this long, so you'll have something nice and distracting to look forward to :)


	15. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see a bad moon a-rising  
> I see trouble on the way  
> I see earthquakes and lightnin'  
> I see bad times today
> 
> I hear hurricanes a-blowing  
> I know the end is coming soon  
> I fear rivers over flowing  
> I hear the voice of rage and ruin
> 
> I hope you got your things together  
> I hope you are quite prepared to die  
> Look's like we're in for nasty weather  
> One eye is taken for an eye
> 
> Don't go 'round tonight  
> It's bound to take your life  
> There's a bad moon on the rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to my angels, mliz, Bef, and Lady, who have been with me for ages now and whose support means the whole goddamn world to me. love you guys <3

8:49pm 

Tommy’s eyes followed Tessa’s retreating form with a slight squint, his eyes lowered to where her hand was leading Michael’s. 

“When did they become such good mates?” he said in a low tone, and Polly couldn’t tell how to read him. Even though usually she prided herself on it more than she would admit, she wasn’t sure if he had meant it as a joke. She wished for a moment that when he said it he had sounded like the petulant sixteen year old boy he had never gotten to be, but she worried that instead of petulance, the undercurrent of his tone held an aftertaste of venom. She felt a flash of worry for her son, like the red gleam of a flare. 

“We are bound by life and death,” she said, instead of asking. There is wisdom in choosing to not know the things that you know you don’t want to. Tommy kept his face blank and closed, leaning his shoulder back against the tarnished, pounded metal wall. His white button-down tuxedo shirt nearly glowed in the darkness, and the end of his cigarette actually did, orange and bright. He inhaled quickly, blew a breath out slow, grey smoke hovering around him and then dissipating. Polly made a prompting expression. 

“You lied to me,” Tommy said, his voice low and his eyes fixed down the dark hall. 

“Which time?” Polly said, her voice smooth. There was no use pretending. Someone had to pick up the broken pieces. Polly hadn’t chosen her role. Tommy sighed like he didn’t even know where to begin, and the tension between them hung in the air like the smoke. 

“Fucking threatening to go behind my back and tell Tessa about the plan.” He said, starting at the beginning, and he took another drag. To be quite frank, amidst the recent insanity, Polly had forgotten about that particular betrayal completely. “Plotting fucking murder and fuck knows what else. You’ve been lying to my face for _weeks._ ” 

He turned his head to the side to look at her, and Polly stood firm under his scrutiny, the shadows around his intense, hollowed eyes making the planes of his bones stand out even more than usual, skeletal and sharp. 

“What would you like me to say, Thomas?” she asked, in a tone that was meant to be apathetic but came out sounding a bit more defensive than she would have liked. Tommy’s expression hardened further. He straightened from the wall and moved closer, his voice soft and angry. 

“There’s nothing to say. I can’t fucking trust you anymore. You, of all people. This is your fucking mess, Pol. All this shit you’ve stirred up, it’s my neck will be in the noose for it,” he hissed, talking with his hands like he did when he was truly agitated. Polly had noticed that when Tessa was near, Tommy tended to unconsciously display more emotion than he would typically expose. It was a weakness, but if she said it wasn’t also a sort of selfish relief, it would be a lie. Sometimes, when he was with Tessa, Polly could still see flashes of _her_ Tommy, like a bright fish under a frozen pond, but now was not one of those times. Now Thomas was angry, but she was much more acclimated to his anger than she was to the brief moments when she glimpsed the ghost of the boy who he had once been. 

“Yours?” she retorted, with a bite in her inflection, “Or Tessa’s?” She asked, to stop him fucking pretending. Tommy came up short, his lips parted in afront. 

“If you fucking knew how it would go, why did you as good as throw her to the wolves? Why the fuck did you make her do it, eh?” he growled, and Polly cackled as if it was truly funny and not just dreadfully misguided. 

“Oh, please,” she snorted, “our little snow angel was chomping at the bit to see that bastard get what he deserved, and you know it as well as I. Don’t try to put this on me, Thomas. I know why it really bothers you.” Tommy shook his head very slightly, slowly. _Don’t do it, Pol,_ those eyes of glittering ocean ice warned, but the Shelby temper burned deeper. “You don’t like that she did your job for you. Or am I wrong?” 

Tommy blinked slow, all black lashes and fury. He didn’t respond. 

“This isn’t like you,” Polly said, accusingly. “If it bothers you so much, you should have found a way to off Fischer on your own.”

“Yeah, I had a plan,” Tommy said, shortly. 

“And we had a faster one.” Polly softened her voice slightly. Tommy still didn’t reply, his stare unbroken like he was waiting for her to slip up, like he was calculating her, like he didn’t believe a word coming out of her mouth. “He bled out onto his carpet. That’s all that matters, not how it was done. Ada can rest.”

“It’s not about that,” Tommy spat, surprising her with his venom, and of course it wasn’t, nothing ever was, now, because Tommy didn’t speak of her anymore. “She’s seen too much, Pol,” he said, blue eyes visible even through the gloom, looking at the spot where Tessa had disappeared around the corner with Polly’s son, and there was a note in her voice that made Polly question her own decision not to ask why Tessa was still at the party, and not in a safehouse with Finn. A note of sadness and desperation, like he knew the clock was ticking down, that the list of horrible things that Tessa had seen was about to grow longer, like he knew it was all his fault. Polly wasn’t sure she had ever in her life seen her nephew look guilty. Not for anything, not for anyone. 

“You trust her?” Polly said, ticking her head down the length of the dark hall. Tommy blew out smoke. 

“Yes,” he said, like Polly would be raving not to agree. And she did. She trusted Tessa, of course she trusted Tessa. She trusted her because Ada had trusted her, because Tessa had bloody killed for their family, she trusted Tessa because she was still standing, with a baby in her belly and a gun on her thigh and fire in her eyes. But Tommy was right, more than he really knew. She _had_ seen too much, and Polly knew how it would play out. She could sense it like a cold breeze over her skin, like the prickle on the back of your neck when you feel like someone is following you home through dark streets. If they all survived, and that was a terrifyingly huge _if_ , Tessa would explode like a grenade whose pin had been pulled a hundred times over and had been fighting and fighting not to go off. And because it had been the Shelby’s who had done this to her, they would pay, with Tommy’s broken heart and a child born with blue skin and no breath because it’s mother was caught in a world of wickedness that had dug its claws into her and would never, ever let her go. And then it would be too late. So yes, Polly trusted that Tessa would never _intentionally_ hurt the family. The same way the family had never intended to hurt her. But it happened anyway, didn’t it, and it would happen again, and she didn’t think that the choice rested in Tessa’s porcelain hands any longer. The gavel had fallen long ago. And the only thing that can stop fate is magic, so the witch would intervene to save them both from their own destruction. 

“Be careful, Tom,” Polly warned in a little over a whisper, her voice still resounding off of the tight walls like an echo in a cave. “A war of love has casualties just the same.” 

Tommy’s eyes flickered like the flames dancing in the candles in the main hanger, then he clicked his tongue. 

“Keep your fuckin’ gospel,” he said, “I don’t need to hear another sermon from a forked tongue.” 

Polly drew in a rather painful breath through ribs like steel vices. She scoffed. “So you trust her, but not me? Tell me, Thomas, which is worse: secrets, or lies?” she asked, and he had been staring out past her, but his gaze jerked to hers. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Everyone has their truth. You want hers, you’ll have to get it from Tessa herself. You want your own… well. You might not want your own.” 

“I’m not afraid of the truth, Polly.” 

“You should be,” Polly said, the hem of her dress dragging across the floor like a whisper as she moved. Tessa’s voice echoed down the hall, raised to the point Polly could hear her snapping her son’s name. Distant footsteps bounced off the tight corridor, too heavy to be Tessa’s. Tommy was working his jaw. 

“Tell me,” he said, and Polly shook her head. 

“She will tear you apart,” she said, lowly, and Tommy’s inhale was cut short by Michael’s approach. 

“All right down here?” he called, his face too serious for his light tone, his cheeks slightly flushed. 

  
  


8:53pm 

  
  


“We’re fine, Michael,” Tommy replied, his deep voice in a very monotone key, then easily flipped to rapid-fire Rokka, speaking so fast and quietly into his mum’s ear Michael couldn’t catch a single word. Polly turned to him with wide eyes, a question on her pursed lips, Michael then heard the name “Churchill” very distinctly, and his mother’s eyebrows shot up. Michael was immediately very disoriented. He was expecting to hear Tommy say “Fischer” or maybe “gun” or “murder”, and he suddenly felt quite foolish. Tessa had been right, he realized. He needed to keep his eyes on the real danger. He hovered rather awkwardly in front of them as his mum nodded at Tommy’s words, watched as she gave her nephew a very direct _we’ll talk about this later_ look. Given that there would even be a “later”. Whatever Tommy had told her, it seemed to have pleased her, although Michael wasn’t sure whether it was because of the actual content of his words, or the fact that he was trusting her enough to share them with her. In either case, Michael’s presence was obviously unnecessary, to put it kindly, and he wondered how much longer they would keep shutting him out, if they would ever really trust him enough to let him help the company the way he knew he was capable of. He would learn. He would prove himself. He thirsted for it like a drunk run dry, with a bottle of whisky just out of reach. Tommy checked his gold watch, which glinted in the low light like the gleam of an animal’s eye in the darkness. 

“Fifty-three,” he muttered, under his breath. “We need to go. Where’s Tess?” 

“I left her at the end of the hall,” Michael said, only realizing his mistake when Tommy fixed him with an ice-cold stare, and Michael wondered how it was possible to make someone feel stupid just by looking at them. Benson was trying to locate the snitch, John and Arthur were a mile in the air, and they still hadn’t located the Germans within the crowd. And Tessa was alone. 

“You interrupted our conversation,” Tommy said, his words casually cutting. “Go back to her, and then don’t fucking move. We’ll be there in a moment.” 

“Yes, sir,” Michael ground out between clenched teeth, chastised, his footsteps falling heavy and sharp as he turned and strode away from them. 

  
  


Tommy turned back to his aunt. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he said. 

“Of course,” she replied, because she knew a gesture of goodwill when she saw one. He was choosing to trust her, by telling her about Churchill, by relying on her. She waited. 

“The Perish leader is looking for me. He’ll be coming to speak with me,” Tommy said, and Polly felt the blood drain out of her face. She should have known the favor would be nothing short of terrifying. 

“How do you know?” she whispered, but Tommy just shook his head. 

“They think they’re about to slaughter us,” Tommy said, grimly. “They’ll want to gloat, face to face. But I don’t have any fucking time, I have to get these guests out of here and I’ve only got five minutes to do it. So I need you to distract them, and whatever it takes, _get them onto the back lawn._ Alright?” 

Polly nodded. Her heart was skipping beats like a child over a rope. While he was talking, Tommy had put his hands on her arms, but she hadn’t even noticed it until he let go again. She took a rather unsteady step, and he caught her wrist. 

“Pol,” he said, looking a decade younger, looking almost _ashamed,_ like he had when he had broken something as a child and had gathered up the courage to admit it to her. She made a confused face. 

“What?” 

“I- you- do you blame me?” he said, quietly, and of all the things she might have been prepared to hear, she would never, ever have expected that. She blinked at him, and the seconds of silence stretched between them, his eyes searching her face. She thought about Jack Fischer. She thought about Lucy Wong. She thought about Tessa. She thought about Ada. She turned so that she wouldn’t be able to see his expression when she replied. 

“I’ll get them onto the lawn,” she said, and she walked away.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. "Julia did you take this song from the fucking teen wolf soundtrack" and the answer is yes lmao I've been forcing the poor men I live with to rewatch it with me despite their protests, and now they're super invested, so HA. hope you guys are staying safe!! sending virtual, social-distancing-approved hugs and kisses to you all <3


	16. No Church in The Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human beings in a mob  
> What's a mob to a king?  
> What's a king to a God?  
> What's a God to a non-believer  
> Who don't believe in anything?
> 
> Will he make it out alive?  
> Alright, alright  
> No church in the wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is admittedly one of my favorites, is very long, and is also (partially) from Alfie's perspective. Because of that, and as is always true of him, there is a lot of explicit language and some more questionable opinions, so I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up about that. Also, from here on out, you can expect this story to live up to its Explicit rating. If violence, anti-semitism, or adult content might trigger you, this is a general warning for all of the above, because I don't want to traumatize anyone, but I also don't want to put this at the beginning of every chapter. I love you all, and I hope you're staying safe <3

8:54pm 

Tessa had a pistol held against her temple. One moment she was alone and the next it was there, the steel kiss cold against her hot skin, her velvet dress weighing heavily on her frame and her mane of hair beginning to make her neck ache, little annoyances that for some odd reason she hadn’t even noticed until she was a finger twitch away from a much, much worse fate than sore feet or tired eyes. The honest truth was that she hadn’t even processed that she was alone, or the implications of it, until she wasn’t anymore. She had been bracing her back against the wall outside the hallway that Michael, Polly and Tommy were standing down at the end of somewhere. The factory building was so vast she couldn’t even hear their voices over the din of the crowd, despite the fact that she stood separate from it, hidden behind a huge display of flowers in a golden vase half as tall as she was, bursting with white roses that were dripping their petals onto the scrubbed wooden floor as the night wore on, their perfume infusing the air with heavy florals over the slight tang of steel. Someone must have stepped out from behind the vase without her even noticing. It would not have been particularly difficult to do, as Tessa’s eyes had been squeezed shut in frustration, and the music and voices blocked out most other sounds. But even still, when she heard the telltale _snick_ of the hammer being pulled, her first, irrational response was not fear, but annoyance at herself for allowing such a thing to happen. And then she felt the fear. 

“Good evening, Ms. Reilly,” said the voice holding the gun, in a heavy accent made worse by its rolling drawl. “Allow me to introduce myself, on behalf of my organization, seeing as our host has not allowed us that simple courtesy.” The pistol slipped lower, from her temple to her cheek, pressing hard against her bruise from Star. Tessa choked on her breath like it was water in her lungs instead of air. 

“I am Markus von Stein. I have no doubt that you will remember that, as history shall not allow you to forget.” Tessa’s hands were still locked behind her as they had been before Mr. German von German had shown up, pressed against the ridged grain of the wall, and she wasn’t stupid enough to try to move them to reach her gun. She couldn’t even turn her head to look at him, her eyes fixed out into the crowd past the glorious bouquets and gleaming prototype motorcars, the barrel solid against her sore cheek, her heartbeat jumping so loudly in her ears she was surprised she could hear the words being said over the rushing of her own blood. Her breath was now refusing to inflate at all, and she stood with her chest locked like it was frozen, unable to inhale. He continued. 

“As I said, Mr. Shelby has been rather unaccommodating, and has refused to grant us an audience. Personally, I find his lack of hospitality extremely offensive. Yes. Quite unacceptable.” He moved closer, and now Tessa could sense him, could feel his presence instead of just a disembodied gun. His thickly accented voice held a new, flippant ring. “But no matter. We have ways of acquiring his attention if he does not wish to impart it willingly. And I believe this,” he shoved the cold metal against her face, so hard she could feel it press against her teeth through her cheek, “ought to do the trick. Now. Do you know where he is?” 

Tessa hesitated, wishing that she wasn’t, wishing that she had a plan, an idea, anything, but all she really knew was that she was not going to lead an armed German to Tommy while he, Polly, and Michael were all in confined quarters with no warning. Von Stein would have two bodies on the floor before the third had time to draw. His hand gripped the back of her neck, the same spot Tommy sometimes held when they fucked, but instead of pleasure, von Stein’s touch made a shiver of revulsion pass through her. 

“I see you possess the same poor manners. When a question is directed at a person, they are meant to answer it, no?” The hand squeezed and tightened until Tessa’s shoulders rose instinctually to cringe away from the pressure. “Nevertheless, I will ask you again. Do you know where he is? Speak, flower, or these white roses will be red.” 

“Yes,” Tessa spat, she would not cower, she would not quiver and shake and plead, she would not she would not she would not. What would Tommy think of her, if she swooned at the sight of a gun? She saw the blurry outline of von Stein’s nod in her peripheral vision. She still couldn’t make out his face from the corner of her eye. He dropped the gun to the small of her back. 

“Walk,” he commanded, and she did, away from the hallway and into the crowd, praying for a stroke of genius to hit her, only focused on putting as much distance between herself and the German and the unprepared Shelbys gathered in the hallway as she could. If she could have turned her head to check behind her, she might have seen Michael stop dead, about to emerge, might have watched his expression blanch as he caught the glimmer of the grey steel pressed to the bare skin of her back above the low dip of her green dress, might have seen him spin and turn back frantically, but she didn’t. She didn’t see him meet Polly halfway down the hall, didn’t hear the sharp click of Polly’s heels as she picked up her dress to run back to Tommy to convey the message. She saw only the blurry faces of the passing crowd as she weaved in-between the bodies, her mind completely blank, panic beginning to set in the longer she thought about how terribly fucked she was if she didn’t find an immediate solution, rising like bile in her throat as she continued to come up short. 

“I do hope,” said the voice behind her, the words smothered by the thick dialect, “that you are not lying to me, Miss Reilly. It would be most unfortunate for you if you were.” 

Tessa’s eyes were losing their focus, and she bumped into an old man holding a glittering crystal flute, sloshing champagne over the front of his tuxedo. She didn’t pause to apologize. The smell of the champagne clung to her, and she was thirteen again, she was finding her mother on the floor, the room was spinning and spinning around her like she had drowned herself in the bottles too, 

“I’m not lying to you,” she said, her voice shockingly calm and detached, like it was coming from someone else. “I’m taking you to him.” She didn’t fucking know where she was taking him. She hardly knew where she was. All she was really sure of was that they were moving away from Tommy, away from Polly, away from Michael, that was all that mattered. _It isn’t supposed to start yet,_ she kept thinking. _It isn’t supposed to start yet, we’re not ready, I have to stall him, I have to do whatever I can to stall him,_ but her internal monologue was cut short as the faceless man behind her spoke again, his breath unpleasantly hot, ghosting over her shoulder. 

“My patience is running out,” he said, his words sharper and clearer than they had been before. “Bring me to Thomas Shelby in fifteen seconds, or you will never walk again. I will count down for you, to assist.” 

Tessa bit back her suicidal retort that having someone counting down in her ear would likely do the exact opposite of help, her hands balled into such tight fists that her nails were cutting into her palms even through the gloves, von Stein said “Fünfzehn” in a dis-coordinately pleasant tone in her ear, and she didn’t need to know any German to understand what it meant. 

“Vierzehn,” he all but sang, and Tessa was getting desperate, it was no use, she would have to reach for her Beholla and pray to whatever might be listening that somehow, by some miracle, she shot first, when a gruff voice called out, 

“Oi! Looking for me, are you?” and Tessa spun on her heel, heart hammering, coming face to face with Alfie Solomons, whose brows were lowered over his eyes, a deep, disappointed sort of frown twisting his lips and a revolver held casually in one hand underneath the heavy folds of his coat. 

  
  


8:54pm

  
  


Tessa Reilly had a gun held on her. Fuck knows why he did it, really. Alfie was beginning to wonder if this particular bird caused a bit more trouble than she was really worth, but he _had_ fucking promised, after all. That shady little gypsy had _made_ him fucking promise, so he really didn’t have much of a choice, now, did he? A man’s only as good as his word, after all, which, for Alfie, meant that he was a very bad man indeed. Maybe it wasn’t even about some bullshit promise, who fucking cares about _promises,_ anyway, the only promises that matter are the ones that he knows will come true. Like hell, for instance. Now _that_ was a promise. A handshake with some fucking pikey meant approximately nothing in comparison. So maybe it was the money. Maybe, Alfie thought again, when he saw the gun against her, in some small corner of his mind, _a shame and a waste,_ maybe there was some good left in him after all, maybe he just didn’t want to witness the demise of what he imagined was probably an absolutely divine pussy. At the end of the day, it didn’t really fucking matter anyway _why_ if he ended up getting shot dead for it, now did it? He would be dead and that would be that. And then, as he watched some man march Tessa across the floor, Alfie remembered that if he _didn’t_ intervene, Tommy would come for him anyway, and then he would _definitely_ end up dead, so he caught up to them and called out and shoved the little fucker off of her, held his gun where the fascist shit could see it, keeping it low so as to not cause a panic, but the crowd milled by them, daft as arseholes. The man stumbled and Alfie yanked Tessa behind his back, a bit too roughly, perhaps, but she was much lighter than he had been expecting. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” he said loudly, as the other man seemed to decide whether or not he wanted to point his gun between Alfie’s eyes in the middle of a crowd. “You see, I’ve a condition, yeah. Medically diagnosed an’ all. ‘S very serious, and I’ll tell you how it works. The problem is, right, is that I can’t hear my name come out a cunt’s mouth without givin’ ‘im a good shove.” Alfie shrugged. “Just happens. Like a fuckin’ reflex, innit?” Tessa’s breath was coming in gulps behind him like she couldn’t get oxygen in quick enough. He kept talking, stalling. The other man’s face, which was long and pointy like a rat, was turning a deeper shade of red with every word, his hand still indecisively holding the pistol, halfway raised. 

“ _You_ are Thomas Shelby?” he said, in a voice dripping heavy German syllables, and Alfie sent a quick apology to Yahweh for the horrible sacrilege he was committing, but it wasn’t his fault, was it, if some cunt was stupid enough to think he was a fucking Birmingham diddicoy. Surely he wouldn’t be damned over other people’s assumptions. But even still, what a disgrace. Alfie cleared his throat, and Tessa became suddenly still behind him, he could tell because men did that sometimes in the war, went stiff like a Pointer that had spotted a pheasant, right before a shell took their arm off. Someone else was coming, and Alfie knew, with a sinking sort of feeling in his gut, that it was not someone she wanted to see. 

  
  


8:55pm

Markus von Stein had heavy, bushy eyebrows and a large nose that didn’t fit onto his small face, making him look distinctly rodent-like. Tessa admitted to herself that, no matter how immoral it was, she would have been predisposed to dislike him based on his appearance alone, even if he hadn’t been holding a gun on her. But he had been holding a gun on her, so now she was thinking of the different ways she could kill him as she analyzed him from behind Alfie Solomons’ broad shoulder, her chest so tight it felt like someone had been standing on it. Alfie was babbling but she could hardly catch the words, her heart in her throat like it was trying to escape the cage of her ribs. She realized she was gripping the wool of Alfie’s sleeve quite tightly and commanded herself to release it, but as she did so she spotted several other men making their way towards them through the press of the crowd, and she began yanking on it instead. Alfie seemed to have already sensed her anxiety, because he stopped talking mid-sentence and his clever eyes narrowed, peering over the heads of the guests in the same direction Tessa was looking. She felt like she may indeed vomit. At least eight people were parting the crowd, coming towards them, all men, all wearing the same brown shirts. Between them, standing tall and walking with an air of dignified purpose, was Edward Rockefeller, and just behind him was a man with black hair smoothed back against his head and eyes that were so dark they looked like they could absorb all the light in the room. His grey beard was neatly trimmed, and on his chest shone military badges, but unlike his companions, his uniform was black. He walked with quick, precise steps next to Edward’s long strides, his hands clasped behind his back. Alfie shifted next to her, blocking her further from their view, his cane tapping against the floor with a slow, steady rhythm that matched the beat of the band’s drum, but his attempt to shield her did little good. The men approached with calculated movements, fanning out into a strict semi-circle around their leader, Alfie and Tessa isolated in the middle like they were adrift in a lifeboat lost at sea. Alfie stopped the thudding of his cane, looked around lazily at the faces of the men surrounding them, and began to clap his large hands in the same unhurried pace. 

“Bravo,” he said, his odd voice layered with sarcasm. “Yeah, bravo. Really nice, yeah. Can see you’ve practiced that, looks really good. Very intimidating. A bit much, though, for a party, innit?” 

Edward Rockefeller’s face was set, his eyes glued to Tessa. The man in black smiled.

“Markus, kindly replace your weapon,” he said, in a soft voice, and Markus flinched and finally lowered his gun. “Forgive my son,” the man said, the smile still fixed on his face. It did not reach his eyes. “He tends to become a bit… overeager.” 

Alfie observed Markus with the same look Tessa had seen him shoot the whole roast pig that was sitting on one of the long, linen covered tables. 

“My name is Niklaous von Stein. These are my associates of the Sturmabteilung.” 

“The fuckin’ what?” Alfie spluttered, a large, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Ain’t got a clue what the fuck you just said, mate. Sounded like a fuckin’ sneeze.” 

Tessa elbowed him in the side quite hard, almost making him stumble. He glowered at her. Niklaous’ smile slid from his face like oil paint. 

“Father,” Markus said, and he _did_ sound embarrassingly eager, like a dog yapping at the heels of passersby, “that’s him, father. That’s Thomas Shelby.” 

Niklaous’ eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly. Edward stood stock-still beside him, still watching Tessa nearly unblinkingly. She met his stare for a moment, and then slid her eyes to the floor, desperate to give nothing away on her face. 

“No,” Niklaous said, quietly. “It isn’t.” 

“But then- who,” Markus spluttered, as Niklaous took a gentle sip of the drink Tessa hadn’t even noticed he was holding, then shook out a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his mouth unnecessarily. Tessa had the distinct impression he was attempting to toy with them. 

“That is Alfred Solomons,” he said, drly. “He’s a gangster from Camden Town who operates under the guise of a Jewish baker.” He met Alfie’s withering glare, a vicious sort of light in his dark eyes. 

“Well, now, that just ain’t true, is it,” Alfie huffed, and Niklaous’ expression darkened, “because the Jewish part, right, that part is _definitely_ not a guise.” 

Niklaous twitched his lips in an unamused smile. 

“Where is Thomas Shelby,” he drawled, so flatly it almost didn’t sound like a question. 

“Sorry about the queue,” another voice responded over Alfie and Tessa’s silence, and Michael shouldered his way past one of the brown-shirted men, all swagger and white-faced bravery. “He’s a bit of a celebrity, you know. Autographs will be after the speech.” 

Niklaous raised a thin eyebrow, and in the same motion, the men surrounding him lifted their hands to their weapons, a drop of sweat rolled down Tessa’s back like a frozen touch. Michael’s jaw tightened. 

“Tommy is on his way,” he said, his voice low. 

  
  



	17. Lacrimosa

8:57pm

Tommy met Tessa’s eyes halfway across the room and didn’t look away until he was standing a few feet outside of the circle of soldiers, his eyes like two blue suns that felt like they might incinerate you if you stared into them for too long. Tessa remembered, in a distant part of her mind, how she really hadn’t been able to look right into them when they had first met. Now, she clung to their shocking hue like they really were the sun, and she was spinning inside her head like the planets, her hands trembling, Alfie’s comforting warmth and Tommy’s cold stare the only tangible things in the world. Tessa watched Tommy do a sweep of Niklaous, an expression on his face of vast emptiness. Polly and Benson followed, and even from a distance, Tessa could see that he was grinding his teeth. Polly had her hand slipped inside her little beaded bag. As Tommy approached, one of the soldiers stepped in front of him, directly impeding his path. Tommy did not bother to slow down or even glance at him, just spat, “Get the _fuck_ out of my way,” with his stare frozen on their leader, in a voice that was half snarl and half hiss. The soldier stood firm until Tommy knocked his shoulder into him so hard that the other man had to shoot his foot backwards to catch his fall, and Tommy walked on. He came to a halt a few meters away from Niklaous, who was lighting a cigarette and who had ignored his soldier’s stumbling in just the way Tommy had. 

“So,” the German man said, his hands cupped around the dancing flame, his dark eyes downcast, there was a tattoo on the back of his hand in a shape Tessa did not recognize, “Tommy Shelby. At last. What a game we have been playing, dancing around like leaves in the wind.” He closed his lighter with a distinguished flourish. “You _are_ Tommy Shelby, I presume?” 

Tommy blinked slowly. Instead of answering, he said, “You Germans always did love to waste time. That’s why you lost the war,” and despite his words, his own were hypocritically slow, like he wanted his insult to have time to sink in. Niklaous chucked and inhaled his cigarette. He took a deliberate step closer to Tommy, whose face didn’t so much as flicker. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Niklaous said, delicately. “I have lost nothing. The war has just begun.” 

Tommy blinked again, as if he was batting Niklaous and his prophecies out of the air like a fly. Alfie sniffed, but remained surprisingly silent, his face screwed up in a scowl, angry like his red skin. 

“Si khohaimo may pachivalo sar o chachimo,” Polly said, her slightly husky voice startling Tessa, the surprise preventing her from being able to translate the words. Tommy glanced at his aunt over his shoulder, but his face was still completely indiscernible. He looked, at most, apathetically inconvenienced by the current and quite direct threat. 

“Don’t worry, Pol. He knows, deep down. Just a sore loser,” Tommy said, smoothly, and Niklaous tutted. 

“And what does that make you?” he asked, and Tommy’s eyelashes fluttered again. 

“Don’t know,” he said, evenly. “I don’t lose.” 

“Oh,” Niklaous said, looking quietly delighted, clapping his hands silently together. “I think you do. Actually, I think you _have._ But not as badly as you ought. You were actually quite lucky, Mr. Shelby. You see, her death was not meant to end nearly so quickly. I have told my men that for them,” he said, pointing at Tessa, then Polly and Michael and Benson, even Alfie had a damning finger sent in his direction, “we shall spare no such expense.” 

At some point, Tommy had slipped his hand casually into his pocket. Tessa hadn’t even noticed him moving, but she could see it now, the outline of his fingers clenched into a fist. Tessa wondered how many guns he had. How many weapons. She wondered how quickly he could close the gap between his knives and Niklaous’ throat, and did not think the odds were in his favor. Her breath caught in her chest, fear burning like acid through her. Tommy withdrew his hand, casually. The men surrounding them all lifted their hands simultaneously, to their hips, their backs, wherever their weapons were concealed, and Tessa realized they hadn’t even really bothered to hide them very well, _who had let them in? How had they gotten in?_ Tommy eyed them with a bored stare, blue eyes dropping down, flicking open the silver cigarette case he had pulled out from his pocket. He scoffed, insolently amused, shaking his dark head slightly.

“Do you hunt, Mr. Stein?” Tommy asked, flicking his thumb against his lighter. He inhaled, then held the cigarette contemplatively, regarding Niklaous, whose amused expression was quickly fading. Tessa wondered how Tommy knew the insult of dropping the royal prefix. She wondered how the fuck he was standing so still. “If you did, you’d know that if the deer hears you coming, the meat tastes sour. The fear poisons it.” His brilliant eyes traced the expression on the faces of the men in the brown shirts. “Your boys seem nervous, Nick,” he said, softly, “if this was a war, well. You might not hunt, but you said you know war. So you know what that means. Means your company thinks you bit off more than you could chew. I’d wager they wish you would save your threats for your parliament members, I bet they remember what happened to your little club the last time one of you decided to fuck with my family. And I think,” he said, his voice, which had been low to begin with, quieting even further, “that if I gutted you all like deer on this floor, your blood would stink like the cowards you are. Now, if I was you, I would take my little herd of does and get the fuck back to the motherland. By order of the Peaky Blinders.”

Markus lunged forward, but his father caught him roughly by the shoulders, his face white with rage. 

“You speak like one of said Parliament members, Mr. Shelby,” he said, his voice surprisingly smooth, but his black eyes were like little glittering holes. “Exceptionally well, even for a Gypsy. But, as they say, the company you keep…” his beady eyes slid to Alfie, then Tessa, then Polly. “Jews, women, more dirty-blooded pikeys. The stag will stomp out the rats at its feet, and this world will be born again. You cannot stop it. You can only hope that your death be as painless as your sister’s.” He smiled a cold, thin smile. “But I doubt that.” 

Tommy hummed flatly through his nose, then spun away, showing his back to Niklaous as if there weren’t four different weapons that could have immediately shot him in it as he did so. He grabbed Tessa’s hand and turned her on her heel, away from the spot she was rooted to at Alfie’s shoulder. As Tommy passed, he gave Alfie a very slight nod, and the other man inclined his head in a surprising amount of gracefully humble acknowledgement. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Markus’ taunting voice called out over the heads of the guests from behind them. “Before you do lose… you would do well to consider how much you are prepared to.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched on the side of his face Tessa could see, the angle of it sharp and strong, his eyes framed by delicate black lashes, silhouetted by his sloping profile. He kept walking, Alfie following closely behind. Tessa glanced over her shoulder to see Benson putting a protective arm around Polly, who said something quietly in his ear. Tessa saw her pursed lips form the word “lawn”, her high, arched brows pulling together over her deep eyes. Tessa felt like she was floating above her body, and only came back down when she realized Tommy was tugging on her hand, and that her fingers felt slippery with sweat inside her gloves. She glanced down through her swimming vision, and was momentarily put on pause, because her sweat was red, why was the sweat _red?_ And then she thought the blood on her hands had stained through her gloves, somehow, but there was too much for that, and then, finally, she realized it was Tommy’s hand that was bleeding, sliced across the inside of his first knuckles. She tried to pull him to a stop, but he was much stronger, and her efforts didn’t even seem to register past the burning of his eyes.  
“Tommy,” she said, but it was like he couldn’t hear her as he marched her across the floor, “Tommy. Tommy. Baby. What happened to your hand?” she asked, and he finally glanced down at her. 

“What?” he said, then his eyes slid to where his hand held hers, the crisp, snowy silk of her gloves turning quickly scarlet from the cut that was bleeding heavily. “Fuck,” Tommy muttered, coming to a halt, and she realized that he hadn’t even noticed it as he stared at it in confusion, and then it hit her that he must have been gripping the blade of a knife in his pocket with his fist. 

“Here,” she said, peeling off a glove for him to wrap around his palm as a makeshift bandage. His eyes were flashing with things she couldn’t read, distant and separate from her. He didn’t wince as she tightened the knot, his face blank as an artist’s canvas. 

“Are you ready?” he asked her, the cadence of his deep voice, which she usually found so comforting, sending an anxious tremor down her limbs. She didn’t respond, her voice frozen, and he suddenly snapped back, all his energy present. He tilted her chin up with his injured hand. 

“Remember what I told you. After it happens, you run. You run like hell and you get in a car and you don’t look back. Promise me, Tess.” His voice was soft and serious, his ernest eyes searching her face with an expression so unexpectedly open she couldn’t look at him. 

“I promise,” she said, and the lie burned down her throat like acid. 

“Michael,” Tommy said, addressing him without looking, Tessa hadn’t even heard him approach. “It’s time.” 

There was one, shimmering moment that felt closed off from the world where Tessa looked at Michael, at his gray eyes and serious expression, and wondered if she would ever see him again, but his gaze slid over her like the waves against the tide, like he had to tear his eyes and feet away, and then he nodded smartly and his black tuxedo melted into the crowd of others and he was gone. Tessa took a very shaky breath. Tommy’s hand settled on her waist, gently nudging her forward. 

“Come on, Lolo,” he said, and her feet obeyed. 

  
  


8:59pm

  
  


Tessa could not remember the walk up to the rear stage. The orchestra had paused, and the night breeze whispered through the currents of the guest’s conversations like an underlying whisper. Like a warning. The air was cold, but she couldn’t feel that, either. It registered only in the hair standing up on her arms, in the shake of her fingers. They were standing on the platform before she realized where she was, that she had missed the crowd parting around them, couldn’t smell the sharp sting of dying grass and fallen leaves as they walked across the lawn. The world was muffled as if by a plane of glass, the colors muted, the sounds silenced. Her ears were ringing. They had climbed the steps, the skirt of her velvet dress heavy in her cold, stiff hands, Tommy’s palm guiding her on the small of her back. The night sky was obscured by heavy clouds, stretching from one horizon to the next, blocking out the stars. People were flooding onto the lawn, chattering and peering at the stage, glittering drinks in their hands and expectant expressions on their faces. Tommy checked his pocket watch, gold chain glinting slightly in the darkness, the torches lining the stage casting deep shadows across his dangerous features. His plush lips were moving wordlessly, counting down. 

_Ten._

Tessa waited for the high-pitched cry of a bullet, for the sting through her skin. She waited for cocking guns and firepower, hissing, whizzing, banging through the air at any moment. They stood together on the stage like the perfect sacrifice, the perfect lure, the perfect trap. The night was quiet but for the whispers. 

_Nine._

A group of men in brown uniforms emerged from the back bay doors, the brightness of the hanger behind them throwing them into black shadow the moment they began making their way onto the lawn, their steps precise and professional and unconcerned. She saw Polly leading them, recognized her by her loping, catlike walk. Tessa watched them, watched for the glint of steel, the motion of a pulled gun at Polly’s back. 

_Eight._

Tessa thought about her brother, with his laughing blue eyes, so different from Tommy’s, she remembered how he had buzzed his copper hair short the day before they had driven him to the train station. “They’ll just do it anyway,” he had said, shrugging, “Now it’s on my terms.” Tessa wondered if she would have to do the same, put a bullet in her own head before the Perish got the chance. She wondered if she would be brave enough to. Benson climbed onto the platform, his brown eyes catching the gold of a flashing trumpet held in white gloved hands by a member of the orchestra. Tessa’s chest shook. 

_Seven. Six._

She thought about the way her mother had smelled, how Tessa had smashed the bottle of perfume on her vanity after she had died because she had been so _angry_ at her, about how she and her father had picked wildflowers on the sides of the road for her before the war, before they had sent the pieces of her brother back home in a box with a note warning about the contents being disturbing. 

_Five._

She wondered if this was her life flashing before her eyes. 

_Four._

She wondered what it felt like to get shot. She wondered how badly it would hurt, for how long, she prayed and prayed and prayed she wouldn’t find out. Benson was standing slightly behind her, his hands clasped at his back, his stare frozen out into the crowd. 

_Three._

Tessa looked at Tommy. 

_Two._

He looked back. She had still never seen someone so strangely beautiful. 

_One,_ his lips formed. He stepped forward, and cleared his throat. Into the microphone, he said, 

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Shelby Motor Company Grand Opening.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polly says "There are lies more believable than the truth". This song is a little out there, but you know, whatever, when has that ever stopped me. love love love LOVE you guys.  
> now.  
> are we ready for this shit or what??


	18. Paint it Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PROTIP pay close attention to the timestamps from here on out or you will likely become very confused haha

8:57pm

“So,” Niklaous said, his eyes glimmering like a rat in the dark. His sharp features looked much more distinguished and proportional in his face than his son’s, but Polly still found his eyes deeply unsettling. They roamed over her like the touch of something hidden in murky water. She repressed a shiver. “You are the… aunt?” 

“I’m the Treasurer,” she corrected, “And you’ll have to excuse Tommy. You know what they’re like when they’re young.” 

“Hmm,” Niklaous said, contemplating her, his gaze sliding briefly to his son, who looked abashed. “I see the family charms must have skipped a generation.” 

Polly smiled like a fox. She was a rodent, too, she always had been. No amount of money would ever really change that, and she didn’t want it too. Dark roots reached deeper. 

“He’s speaking on the back lawn. Perhaps you will accompany me there, and after, we can share a dance,” she said, and the black-haired German grinned. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and Polly drew in a tense breath that she blew out slowly, covering it with another gracious smile. 

8:59pm

They followed her out of the doors, and she focused on keeping her footsteps steady. The clasp of her bag was already open, the night open, too, the darkness vast and swallowing. She could see Tessa climbing the steps of the stage, gorgeous emerald gown held up in her hands, Polly saw the briefest flash of a knife strapped to her ankle before the material swished back down over it. Tommy followed Tessa closely, a steadying hand on her back. The music swelled and then faded and died, and the footsteps behind her slowed as she and her posse of fascists came to a halt, waiting. 

8:58pm 

Michael pulled the handkerchief up over his face. It smelled fresh and new, like the shoe polish at the tailors. 

“ON THREE!” He bellowed, holding up his hand for the five other men. Men, not boys. This was not the play fighting of a boy. _It’s war,_ Tommy had said, his voice firm, Michael flicked his lighter and held it to the vodka-soaked cloth. 

“LIGHT!” He called, and ten feet to his left sprouted more flames, bursting orange and blue like suddenly blooming, exotic flowers, then another, and another, more shimmering from through the broken windows of the old paint shop, surrounding it completely. The cloth over his mouth muffled Michael’s voice slightly, as he held the burning bottle above his head. 

“ONE!” He called. “TWO! THREE!” And he launched the molotov through the shattered window, into the darkness, others following and shattering and _whooshing_ like a stiff wind. The paint shops and staging area were connected, and wooden, and would go up like kindling, and Michael knew that at that moment Isiah was watching flames begin to lick at the baseboards of the buildings to the left of the hanger, as the fire took to them as well, bright and hungry. 

“Alright, men,” Michael said, jerking his eyes away from watching through the open window a flame burst high as it came into contact with an old can of extremely volatile paint, throwing red against the opposite wall like a splatter of bright blood, thinking about the little white well in his old village, grinning so hard his eyes were squinting, “Let’s go get our bloody guns!” 

The six of them roared like the fire. 

  
  


8:59pm 

  
  


“You know how Tommy said he wanted an overcast fucking night?!” John shouted at the top of his lungs into the crackling of the radio, and he saw Arthur’s head swivel a bit over his shoulder, holding onto the gun to steady himself. 

“Yeah, what!” Arthur called back over the whipping of the wind, the roar of the engine, John’s voice sounding distant like he was yelling across a football pitch. 

“Well, the man’s a fuckin’ idiot! I can’t see shit!” 

“We’re going under the bloody clouds!” Arthur shouted. “Tommy said to hold off until we were just above the hanger!” 

There was a pause, then John’s voice filtering back through to him, the clouds whipping past them, wet and cold, making his fingers stiffen on the wheel. At least John wouldn’t have to worry about pulling the trigger on the Lewis. That was the wonder of the fully automatic.

“Oh! Right!” Arthur remembered than John had actually been the one told this. “There will be _no_ friendly fire,” Tommy had said, his voice dangerously low, a finger in John’s face. “I won’t have that kind of fucking digrace on this family’s name. All our boys will be wearing their caps, but stay low anyway. I want faces identified before triggers are pulled.” 

“Alright, Tom,” John had said, the usual cheerfulness gone from his eyes. Now, his voice sounded higher than usual, thin with adrenaline. He cawed like a bird so loudly behind him that Arthur could hear it even without the radio. Water droplets splattered on his goggles and then were whipped away just as quickly. 

“HERE COME THE EAGLES, BABY!” John yelled, “HERE COME THE BLOODY FUCKIN’ EAGLES!” 

9:00pm

The crowd stilled and silenced. Stragglers were wandering out of the golden light of the bay doors, black like shadows, ushered along by men whose brims flashed slightly in the darkness of the night. Tommy’s skybright eyes caught the glinting light and tossed it back, shining out of the dark contours of his face. Tessa must have been breathing, because as far as she could tell, she was still standing, but she was unaware of it. Couldn’t hear it. Could only listen to Tommy’s voice, reverberating slightly around her, magnified over the head of the crowd. He did not seem at all shy, standing above a crowd of a thousand, his tuxedo absolutely crisp, every line of him hard and bold and unflinching. _A bullet could hit him,_ Tessa was thinking, frantically, _a bullet could go through his brain, right now, right in front of me,_ the lights inlaid along the edge of the stage were elongating in her view, stretching and melting, and she fought the dizziness and the nausea and the fear fear fear and looked out over the crowd like she wasn’t there at all. She listened. 

“My name is Thomas Shelby,” Tommy said, as if anyone there didn’t know. His voice seemed different, less rough, his rolling Brummy accent smoothed over slightly. “My brothers and I are the founders of the Shelby Company Limited. Please accept my apology for their current absence. In retrospect, the open bar might have been a poor choice on my part.” The audience gave an understanding, responsive chuckle. Tessa forced a smile, her fingers tap tap tapping against her side. Tommy’s hands were held behind his back like Beson’s, hiding the bloodstained glove, and Tessa realized with a frivolous rush of embarrassment that she had walked on stage still wearing the other, her hands mismatched. She slid her fingers out of view as well, just like the men on the stage with her. 

“Tonight is a celebration,” Tommy continued, Tessa searched his smooth skin above his crisp white collar, searched as if somehow she would be able to see his pulse, be able to see it hammering like hers was. She could hear nothing of it in his voice. The breeze rattled scattered leaves below the rafters of the stage under them, out across the perfectly groomed lawn, the once-green grass dried to a brown not visible in the low light. There were large marble brasiers holding foot-high flames flanking the stairs to the stage, but most of the crowd was still in shadow to Tessa, for which she was extremely grateful. “No spotlights,” she had heard Tommy say, weeks ago, on the telephone. “They’ll catch on the plane. We need overcast weather and as little light as we can get away with,” and he had gotten just what he had wanted. Overhead, the ripples of clouds were only a shade lighter than the black of the night sky behind them. 

“A celebration of industry. Of _o_ _ur_ industry. British industry. They say we’re on the outs, eh? Say this country’s been going under ever since the war. But tonight, we prove naysayers wrong. Tonight, we give them our answer to their doubts.” Tommy spread his arms, looking for all the world like a king without a crown, and before him, the massive back of the factory, a hundred and fifty foot wall of glittering glass and wood and steel was covered by the cloth of an unfurling flag, so huge Tessa could hear the yards and yards of material as it dropped until it sank to just above the top of the bay doors, covering the windows, covering most of the back wall itself. The crowd turned at the noise with slight murmurs of curiosity that turned to a roar of gasps, then whistles and applause when they saw the brightness of the flag’s colors shining through the darkness of the night. Hundreds of appreciative faces turned back to Tommy, now listening intently, clinging to every word. Tessa felt impaled by scrutiny, even just standing beside him, but Tommy’s voice didn’t so much as flicker. 

“It is also a celebration of family. Of your families, and mine, and the families of every person on whose back that industry rests, who have fought in all the different ways there are to fight. For their country, for their blood.” He paused, slightly, and the crowd waited as if with baited breath, drowning in his words. Tommy took a perfectly timed breath.  
“It is not just my brothers who should be standing beside me tonight. My sister, should have been on this stage as well. But she was taken from us,” Tommy’s eyes fell, and Tessa had an odd feeling that he had done it on purpose, that he was manipulating, that he was molding the emotions of the audience in his hands like clay, garnering sympathy and support. The crowd responded with a hushed gasp. She couldn’t decide if she was impressed or appalled, but in either case, she had little idea what he was after, and he continued, “by those same dissenters who count this country out. And yet, Britain remains. My family remains. And family… is everything. It’s what gives me the strength to carry on.” 

Tessa thought that was rather trite, and it was then that she realized her speculation had been correct, that Tommy meant hardly any of what he was saying. She wondered if she had ever heard him say so many words in all the time she had known him as he had tonight. She had been so focused on mentally assessing his speech that she nearly jumped when he turned to her, terrifyingly calm, she had forgotten about the party, she had forgotten about the plan, she had forgotten about everything, she wasn’t ready- 

“As does she. Which is why... I want to ask her to be a part of that family.” Tommy held out his hand to her, she smiled, somehow, walked forward to take it, somehow, listening listening listening, and in the background she could hear a low, low buzzing, like a massive swarm of bees- 

Tommy got down on one knee. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooooooo boy was my heart going as I wrote this lmao. Next chapter is called Funeral Bell


	19. Funeral Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, mother, I'm scared to die  
> Where, where do my good deeds lie  
> Oh, father, I'm scared to live  
> Takes more than I've got to give  
> Oh, sister, my voice is weak  
> Oh, brother, I long for sleep  
> Oh, hunger, I know you well  
> My cruel friend is a funeral bell
> 
> Oh, lover, I know you're there  
> And I'd follow you anywhere  
> Oh, give me a hand to hold  
> So that I may face the cold
> 
> Cause it rings in the day, and it rings in the evening  
> Oh, I could pray  
> But it won't stop you leaving  
> Shadow in black, you are grim from your reaping  
> Oh, can't you spare just a day for the weeping?

Saturday, 12th of October, 1924

7:45pm

Shelby Company Motors 

Colindale, London

He led her onto the dancefloor, impressed at her ability to stride as if on water while wearing an evening gown and heels. He was also impressed with her ability to keep her face indiscernible, if not completely blank. That’s what you got in rich girls. Balance and composure. On the surface, at least. He thought briefly about Lucy’s bloodstained mouth and very nearly let himself smile. 

“So? What is it?” Tessa muttered to him out of the corner of her mouth once they had reached the open area of the floor, as he slid his hand around her waist, the velvet smooth and slippery. Tommy realized, suddenly, that he had absolutely no strategy for the best way to begin this conversation. Other people’s peace of mind was not something he typically bothered to take into consideration. Thankfully, Tessa seemed too immersed in inspecting the passing guests to pick up on his hesitation, no doubt looking for von Stein, although she, unlike Tommy, did not yet know that that was his name. Tommy had had a mental list of suspects, and Lucy’s useful physical description had narrowed it down to only one option, so now he knew the name of the man he was going to kill, which helped the process slightly. There was no trickle of doubt in Tommy’s mind suggesting that perhaps they should let the fascist and his followers go once they had gotten to him. When he found the man who sent the order that killed his sister, he would snap his neck just like they had done to her. “What’s the order, Tom?” Michael had asked him quietly, earlier in the evening, and Tommy had said, “Shoot to kill. It’s war, Michael”. He had meant it. He cleared his throat, hating himself for a brief moment, _you turn everyone around you into soldiers, don’t you, Tommy?_ a voice in his mind whispered, and he shoved it down. 

“I need your help,” he said, and she waited, small and lithe in his arms, paused and still before the song began, glittering specks of light from the diamonds wrapped around her throat sparkling against her skin like cream. Tommy had used to waltz with his mother in their tiny kitchen when he was young, and the steps came thoughtlessly to mind, pulled from his memory like a fish off a hook. Tessa always moved like a dancer, the years of etiquette classes instilled in her very sinew. He had no hope that the dance might distract her, either. 

“Okay,” she said, slightly dubiously, and he couldn’t blame her. “With what?” 

He found himself unable to respond, again, and her stare was burning into him over the lilting music. 

“You can quit with the threatrics, Tommy. There’s enough suspense tonight as it is,” she snapped, and he looked away from her, from her beautiful face and eyes that were still dilated, black pupils blown. She was right. He just didn’t know how to start. 

“The plans have changed somewhat,” Tommy said, quietly, and her breath hitched, but her steps were still smooth, the mellow pace of the song at complete odds with the aggressive pounding in Tommy’s chest. “The smoke grenades didn’t deploy. There’s a snitch in the ranks. We need to switch things up, throw them off. I’m not going to be on the gun.” 

“You’re not?” Tessa choked, and he hated the relief in her voice, wished it was warranted. She smelled of fruits and citrus and the color of green she was wearing, something slightly warm and earthy, like a field of grass. 

“No. The Germans are here. I need to stay and create a different distraction, get them onto the lawn without causing suspicion, something that causes enough of a racket to cover up that plane. We’re going to use the crowd.” Her fingers tightened in his hand, her posture stiffened somewhat against him. 

“How?” she hissed, and he spun her away from him and then back again, and she twirled like a ballerina on the top of a music box. 

“I’m going to propose to you,” he said, before he could think twice about it, and he had to snatch his arm out to catch her as she stepped on the hem of her dress, nearly slipping. Her forehead creased and her pink lips formed several words, but none of them made it out, a red fluttery spiral of escaped hair brushing across her cheeks as they spun. She didn’t seem to be able to respond, so he bit the hypothetical bullet. “We’ll be directly in the line of fire, with the Germans on the lawn.” 

“You- what- Right _now?_ You couldn’t just- make a speech?” Tessa gasped, her face turned slightly so he couldn’t see her expression, but her voice was incredulous enough. He felt a stab of panic, and buried it. She would agree. She had to agree. 

“People cheer for speeches. They scream for love,” he said, and then her stormy eyes met his. 

“Is that what it’s for, Tommy?” she asked, sharply, and he frowned. He held back an offended scoff. 

“You know, I don’t understand why no one believes me about this,” he said, “am I really that fucking untrustworthy?” 

“No. You’re much worse,” Tessa said, turning back to him, her arms crossed in front of her, released the next moment. He caught the very slight flash of her smirk, but when she spoke a moment later, it was nearly sad. 

“Not exactly how I imagined it,” Tessa said, in a quiet voice that was hard to hear over the voices and music, and it hit him like knuckles in the gut. 

“Nor me,” he said, and then she was facing him again, bright and vibrant like a setting sun. 

“Who else didn’t believe you?” she asked, and he paused for a moment, flickering his fingers against the soft back of her glove. 

“Your twat of a father,” Tommy bit out, and Tessa chuckled. 

“Ah. Yes, well,” she said, her lips quirking, “he _really_ doesn’t approve of you.” 

“It doesn’t upset you? To not have his blessing?” Tommy asked, and Tessa shrugged the shoulder of the arm that he wasn’t using to spin her, the shining copper hair that would have usually fanned out around her held up elegantly off her neck. 

“It doesn’t really register on my list of concerns at the moment, to tell you the truth,” she replied, her face set, and he had missed her, missed her wit and her humor and her courage even in the few hours he hadn’t gotten to be with her, and he never wanted to spend another moment parted from her again. And he wanted her to be safe, to get safe, with a furious, burning kind of desperation that made him want to crack the skulls of every guest who laid eyes on her, and he hated that her being safe and her being with him always seemed so painfully mutually exclusive. 

“You haven’t answered,” he said, pulling her back against him, satisfied at the way his voice in her ear made her shiver. 

“You haven’t actually asked,” she retorted, sounding rather short on breath. Tommy didn’t think he would ever forget the way she looked when she shot him a cheeky smile over her shoulder, exposing her straight teeth, didn’t think he would ever be able to look at her without feeling a tug in his chest like a boat caught on an anchor. 

“Marry me,” he said, and she tried to scoff but her grin prevented it. 

“Still not a question,” she muttered, and he pulled her to a stop, ignoring the fact that they were causing other spinning couples to have to part before them as they stood stationary, rocks against the water. The trumpet wailed, triumphant and sad. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m telling you. Marry me.” 

“You’re a crazy, power-hungry gypsy,” she said, flippantly, gently tugging her hand out of his. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, blinking, and her eyes narrowed, like a dark sea framed by black trees. He took a step closer to her. 

“You’re the leader of a razor gang,” she continued, and he began to smile. He settled his hands around her small waist, and she didn’t step away, just pointed a long, delicate finger at him, ticking items off her list. “You’re arrogant and you use people and you lie and steal and kill.” 

“Mm,” he hummed, nodding, and she huffed. He pulled her flush to him before she could cross her arms over her chest, and she settled them over his shoulders instead, standing on her toes to do so, a few inches away from his face, her mouth pressed together to stop her smile. 

“And you know, frankly, you’re not _that_ good-looking,” Tessa said, and Tommy’s grin spread like blood from a wound, sharp and bubbling with life over his lips. Tessa bit her lip to stop her own, fruitlessly. “And you’re broke, to top it all off. So, really, I’m shocked that you would even ask.” 

“That sounded like a “yes”, to me,” he said, lowering his mouth until it was an inch from hers, so close he could smell the cherries on her breath, feel her lashes brush his cheek. 

“Everything sounds like “yes” to you,” she said, smiling against him. 

“Marry me,” he whispered, and he felt the ghost of her laugh across his lips. 

“Yes, alright, Tommy. Alright. I’ll marry you,” she said, shaking her head, grinning, and when he kissed her, he felt something in his chest that he couldn’t place for several moments, a glow like his heart had been plugged in to a power line, like his chest was expanding and inflating and carrying him away. It felt like winning, it was true, but it was more than that, there was something else to it that he didn’t recognize, didn’t recall, didn’t know if he had ever even felt it before at all. But on the wooden dance floor, with his lips on hers, despite the danger, and the fear, and the threat, he felt whole, like all his life he had been missing a limb without knowing it, and it had just been restored to him. He had her, in his arms, she was his, and the victory was sweet like nothing he had ever known, burning through him like whiskey, filling him to the brim. 

9:00pm 

Alfie stood slightly in front of a rather large gathering of accumulated Jews, who he had sent out to mingle for the past several hours, because unlike those fascist German fucks, he didn’t need protecting like some pathetic fucking child, his arms crossed over his chest, listening to his business partner speak. Tommy _did_ sound like a fucking politician, but that’s easy enough to do, really, because all it takes is not fucking believing an ounce of the shit coming out of your mouth. He had an angle, of that Alfie was certain.There were lots of ways they could have gotten the Germans onto the lawn, and lots of reasons, Alfie was sure, that he had chosen this one. Tommy Shelby was not the sort of man who would stand up on a stage and wax poetic about his _feelings_ just for the attention. He got enough of that wherever he went. So Alfie figured it was for power, most likely. More power. _Greedy bastard,_ Alfie thought, admiringly, not even bothering to listen to whatever it was Tommy was saying, and then Tommy held his hand out to Tessa, and Alfie chuckled before anyone else had been clued in to what was really going on. 

“Angles like a fuckin’ apeirogon, eh, Tom?” He muttered. The night was cold even through his coat, and he shifted his feet slightly to keep warm. “A bloke’s gotta give it to him, though, really,” Alfie said, much louder, to the burly Jewish boy to his left, who seemed rather startled that Alfie was speaking so loudly and rudely during a fucking proposal. He looked like a boy to Alfie, anyway. They all did. “I mean, that cunt, he does gets what the fuck he wants, doesn’t ‘e.” Alfie folded his hands over his cane. Tessa was smiling. Alfie couldn’t see the ring from over the heads of the crowd, but he spotted the little black box. Alfie snorted and clicked his tongue. He wanted to call to the burly boy and ask him if he reckoned this had been Tommy’s plan all along, or if it was all for show, but it wasn’t the time and there wasn’t any time at all, anyway. 

“Whatever the fuck he wants,” Alfie muttered, under his breath, and then he spotted the ring with the faintest glimmer as Tommy slid it onto Tessa’s finger, which Alfie knew for a fact was splattered with red blood. “Tommy Shelby, mate.” 

Tommy kissed his little redhead and dipped her like they weren’t standing on a stage in front of a fuckload of people, both of them lit from the torches below the stage like the king and queen of hell, and Alfie heard, as if he was back in France, an unmistakable droning overhead, and the crowd exploded like a bomb. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :,)  
> an apeirogon is an infinitely sided shape  
> to answer your question "is this the eye of the storm" the answer is oh fuck yeah bud lmao


	20. Skyfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end  
> Hold your breath and count to ten  
> Feel the earth move and then  
> Hear my heart burst again
> 
> For this is the end  
> I've drowned and dreamt this moment  
> So overdue I owe them  
> Swept away, I'm stolen
> 
> Let the sky fall  
> When it crumbles  
> We will stand tall  
> Face it all together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thicc chapter today to make up for the last itty bitty one <3

Yesterday

12:04pm 

  
  


“You can’t be serious,” Leonard spluttered, and Tommy wanted to hit him. His head throbbed. 

“I’m always serious,” Tommy replied, dryly, watching Karl, who looked up and gave him a small smile, his young face bathed in the light streaming in from the upstairs window. The smile surprised Tommy, but he supposed the boy was too young to know that Tommy wasn’t the sort of man whose presence made people smile. Except for Tessa, of course. For years, she had been the only person in the world who Tommy didn’t, deep down, think considered his presence something of a curse. Not yet, anyway. And she should have, all things considered, but thieves knew better than to second-guess the value of what they had stolen by pure chance. 

“No.” 

Tommy wasn’t exactly surprised, but he sighed. He ran a hand over his hair, which he hadn’t gotten a chance to brush because he had wasted so much time going on his little bender and he had things needed doing, and it was _bothering_ him. His hair was bothering him, _and_ the wrinkled old prune of a man before him was bothering him, currently wearing a face like he was sucking on a lemon, his thick grey hair perfectly combed, of course. Tommy tutted. “Why not?” 

Leonard scoffed again, like he couldn’t believe Tommy was making him waste his breath answering. 

“You’ve truly deluded yourself into thinking I’m just going to give you my only daughter in exchange for a _house?”_

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tommy muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, his head felt like an anvil. “Forget about the fucking house. I _want_ to _marry_ her,” he repeated, stopping himself from adding, _you fucking ancient git,_ but only barely. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the hesitation, because alright, fine. Tommy would probably not encourage his only daughter to marry a gangster, either. But that wasn’t what he was, really. That wasn’t _all_ he fucking was. At least, that isn’t what he was going to be. Leonard, however, seemed to think differently. 

“No.” He said, and his tone was flat and unaffected. Unwavering. His fingers were folded over his lap, seated in his wheelchair. Tommy was trying not to be resentful that the man who was currently standing, well, sitting, in his way was managing to do so despite not being even a whisper of a physical threat. It wasn’t as if Tommy could just beat the fuckin’ stubornness out of him, an old man in a wheelchair. Even if he wanted to. 

“You should know, Reilly, I’ll just do it anyway. Your blessing is for Tessa’s sake.” 

There was a tense, heavy silence between them. Karl banged his blocks together with a dull _clack_. Leonard turned his eyes from Tommy to the window high on the wall of the bedroom, the stained glass leaking broken blues like light from the underside of water. 

“What makes you so sure,” Leonard said, his eyes, the same as Tessa’s, observing the empty branches of the distant trees through the glass, the limbs stretching like skeletal fingers towards the heavens, “that she would even say yes?” 

Tommy didn’t respond. His head was swirling and pounding and he wanted to take Tessa and a gypsy wagon and get the fuck out of this city, get out of the whole country and never come back. 

“Suppose I’ll find out when I ask her, won’t I?” Tommy said, slowly, and then he straightened from the doorway, spun, and left, doing a very good job of not slamming the door behind him as he did so, catching Leonard’s last glare from over his shoulder. 

Yesterday, 12:21pm

He stalked through the house, wondering when it had become so familiar to him. Down the upper halls, descending the staircase, his bare feet feeling odd against the slick wood and plush rugs. He could hear Tessa’s voice in the smallest parlour as he passed it, clear and sharp, then Polly’s response, lower and smokier, and that was familiar, too, somehow, hearing them talk, and his feet came to a jerking halt before he had commanded them to. 

“How is he?” His aunt was asking, her words floating through the open door. Tommy knew they were talking about him, and felt a stab of anger at himself, for behaving in such a way that they would be discussing him as if he were a sickly child on his deathbed. 

“He’ll be alright,” he heard Tessa respond, but without being able to see her face, he couldn’t quite place her tone. “He’s resting.” She paused slightly, then said, a bit wryly, “Though probably not for much longer.” 

Tommy blew a sharp, quiet breath through his nose, leaning his shoulder against the mahogany door jam and his head against the smooth, forest green wallpaper, which was cool against his warm skin. How the fuck he was going to fight the Germans if he was still in such a state as he was currently would be anyone’s guess. He missed Polly’s next sentence because a sudden throb of pain flashed through his temple, fucking hell, he hadn’t had a comedown this bad since France, maybe he should do some snow and it would all just even out-,

“You afraid?” Polly asked, the same way she might ask Tessa if she fancied the weather. 

“No,” Tessa said, flatly, Tommy could tell just by the way she spoke that she was sober. “I’m not afraid. I’m angry.” 

He believed her, because of her tone, and even if her voice hadn’t been so convincing, he would have been inclined to believe her anyway, just to err on the side of safety. Tessa _was_ angry, and new to the anger, new to the constant, empty, angry hunger that felt like it was burning holes through you. She was angry, and anger made her rash and impulsive, even more so than usual. He had been like that, too, once. But he had learned. He told himself he had learned. 

“Could you give us a moment?” Polly was saying, her words directed to some voiceless other, and only a moment later, one of Tommy’s tailors was walking briskly out the door only a foot away from his face, the one he had brought for Tessa’s dress, turning and shutting it carefully behind her before she had even noticed him. When she did, she clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek of surprise. 

“Mr. Shelby! Gods, but you frightened me!” She said, in her heavy accent. Jamacian, Tommy remembered. “Begging your pardon, sir.” 

“Annabelle,” he said, calm and quiet, not particularly interested in Tessa and Polly discovering he had been lurking outside the door, eavesdropping in his own home. Annabelle curtsied, despite Tommy having told her on at least four different occasions that it was an unnecessary gesture. Fuck, his head hurt. He pulled out his cigarettes. 

“So,” he said. “How does she look?” he asked, casually, and was surprised to note that Annabelle’s dark eyes were wide, as if she was frightened. Perhaps Polly had been taking the piss, or she had seen Michael and John on her way in, having a good-natured but bare-knuckled encounter on the grounds. Annabelle pressed her lips together. 

“Missus be the image of Persephone come to life again, sir,” she said, her tone careful as if she was worried she might offend him. Tommy had forgotten about Annabelle’s odd religious tendencies, mostly because he had no opinion on them. His catholic parents would have rolled over in their graves at such sacrilege, but Tommy only found it mildly interesting. Different perspectives were always a good thing. He hummed and nodded, pressing the cigarette between his lips to hold it while he flicked his lighter. 

“You should go see, sir. I mean, you could see for yourself, if you’d like, sir,” Annabelle said, but Tommy shook his head, then stopped because the motion ached, blowing out smoke, closing his eyes. 

“No,” he said, because he didn’t like imagining what he had looked like the last time Tessa had seen him, didn’t like imagining what he had said. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to find out. 

“Well, then, you should be resting, sir. They said you was meant to be resting,” Annabelle pressed, and Tommy wondered briefly why she was a tailor and not a nanny. He reached into his pant pocket, pulling out five rather crinkled pounds. 

“Here,” he said, handing them to her. “Overhead. To cover whatever it is they did.” He nodded slightly at the closed door, the thick oak completely muffling Polly and Tessa’s voices behind it. To his surprise, Annabelle took a step back. 

“I didn’t hear nothing, Mr. Shelby,” she said, her hands twisting anxiously. “What your family does is- is none my business, sir, you know I would never-,” 

“Whoa, Anna, easy, hey,” Tommy said, eyebrows raised. “It’s alright, eh? It’s alright. You don’t have to take the money. And don’t listen to them,” he said, putting a cautious hand on the tailor’s shoulder, which was shaking slightly. “Fucking crazy women, yeah? Barely worked a day in their lives, either of them. Got nothing better to do than talk. Just talking, you know,” he said, his voice low, trying to keep the cadence soothing. Annabelle was breathing deeply through her nose, her eyes fixed on his. “Just talking. Are you finished in there?” He asked, and she swallowed before saying, 

“Just- just need the dress, need to get it finished-,” 

“‘S alright,” he said, and her nod was jerky. “It’s all right. I’ll get them out of your way. Hey,” he said, as she ducked her head to wipe her nose, “take the money, Anna. You’ve earned it,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, which felt tiny under his hand. At least it had stopped shaking, but her nods were still uneven. He pressed the pounds into her palm. 

“Go clean up, eh?” he told her. “There’s a loo around the corner- well, there’s about a ‘undred of them in this fuckin’ house. Give me five minutes, yeah?” 

“Thank you,” Annabelle muttered, quietly, staring at the floor. She skittered around him, dashed off down the hall, clutching the fist holding the money to her chest. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten before turning the heavy handle of the door and found himself, for the second time in a ten minute span, extremely tempted to slam it behind him with all his force. He didn’t, because he was afraid the exertion might make him pass out. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. 

Tessa and Polly were talking with their heads bowed together in the center of the room, standing before the fireplace and a portable, tri-part folding mirror that was reflecting the pair of them at different angles, as if there were endless Polly’s and Tessa’s trapped inside of it. Polly was dark where Tessa was bright, her hair and her clothes, Tessa’s white skin and flaming hair like a light source of their own. Polly was saying something, speaking quickly, and Tessa was shaking her head rather urgently, so immersed in their conversation that they didn’t even hear him approaching. Perhaps he _should_ have slammed the door, just to get their attention. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, and they both looked up, Polly’s keen eyes looking serious, Tessa looking exceptionally beautiful and exceptionally pale. 

“You scared me fucking tailor,” Tommy said, accusingly, and Polly immediately scoffed and rolled her eyes. Tommy forced himself to focus on the task at hand instead of getting lost staring at Tessa, who truly did look like a moving painting, bright auburn waves tumbling in waves down her back, the slope of which was exposed by the low cowl back. 

“So pay her off,” Polly said, and Tommy let out a sharp sigh. 

“I already did,” he responded, flatly, and Polly raised her eyebrows. 

“So what is there to talk about, then?” Polly asked, and Tessa turned away, looking at her reflection in the mirror with an expression close to fear on her face, dark eyes wide. 

“That was my question, Pol. What _is_ there to talk about?” he asked, and Polly huffed. 

“We’re not sharing your secrets, Thomas,” she snapped, sounding offended, and Tommy could hear the truth in her voice. 

“Well, the fuck did you say to her, then? Looked like she’d seen a fuckin’ ghost,” he replied, roughly, watching Tessa in the mirror, because she, at least, looked at least somewhat abashed. She was very white, in any case, the color leeched out of her like a sheet. Withdrawls, probably. He didn’t want to watch her go through it, so he turned away, back to Polly, who was standing with her hip cocked like Tommy was wasting her time. He should set her up with Leonard, really. What a fine, arrogant couple they would make. 

“Women’s business,” Polly said, shortly, and Tommy gave up. He would find out. He was becoming mildly concerned about Tessa, who looked about the same as he felt, like she was about to drop onto the floor. 

“Tess, you alright?” he asked, his voice quiet, but her eyes snapped to him like a rubber band. 

“Fine,” she said, very quickly, turning away, but he could still see her in the mirror, see her chest rising and falling. He walked towards her, but Polly stepped into his path. 

“Now’s not the time, Thomas,” she said, palm on his chest. He looked down at it, then back up at her, eyebrow raised, and she lowered it slowly, ensuring that he wasn’t going to approach. 

“Get changed,” he called to Tessa, who merely blinked. “And leave the dress. I told Annabelle to be back for it in five minutes.” 

Tessa obediently began to reach behind her to undo the hidden, velvet buttons, and Polly swayed over to help, tossing Tommy a glare like _he_ had done something offensive. Tommy released a tight breath, fucking done with the lot of them. Tessa slipping out of the dress, creamy limbs exposed, left him momentarily stalled, but he shook his head and turned from the room, already missing the warmth in his little brown bottle. 

12:37pm

“Trying this again,” he said, from around a cigarette, trying to light it against the wind. “Didn’t go so well the last time.” 

Fucking cigarette wouldn’t catch, and the grave wouldn’t respond. He spoke again anyway, flicked the lighter again anyway, trying to remember why he was trying. 

“Sorry that I skimped the funeral,” his words were too scratchy, he told himself it was just the smoke in his lungs, but the cigarette was still unlit. “Just fuckin’ hate those things. When I go, you tell the fuckin’ rest of ‘em to dump me in the cut, have it fucking done with.” 

He crouched down, the wind whipping his coat like it was a lover trying to undress him. The grave was still oddly bright, pristine, brand new. It looked like it didn’t belong, a vibrant dot on a grey, dull landscape, and it didn’t. She didn’t. 

“Anyway,” Tommy sighed, heavily, brushing his palm against the crackling grass under the leafless tree, stood like a sentinel over the marble grave. “I’ve some good news, and some not-so-good news.” 

When they were younger, and Tommy had said this, Ada would always ask for the good news first. “If you have something good, the bad doesn’t matter. Good means more,” she would say, young and hopeful, her small chin set. Tommy would tell her mom was gone again, that dad had lost them money, that Arthur had been snatched by the coppers for lifting. But before that, he would bring her a sweet, or a flower, or promise to take her to the pictures, and she would lie and say that it all evened out. 

“The good news is,” he continued, determinedly, past the burning in his throat, “that you’re right. You’ve been right all along, about Tessa and me. The good matters more, eh?” 

The tomb stood still, silent, unmoving. A bird called, somewhere off in the distance. “So I got this,” he said, pulling the little black box from his pocket. “Wish you could… be there. For it.” 

The wind howled across the house grounds, lonely and lonesome sounding. “The bad news,” he said, “is that I got a fuckin’ desposition hearing coming up. Fischer’s still living on borrowed fucking time. The grand opening is tomorrow, and even if we all manage to survive that, then I’ve got the fucking Irish business with Churchill, which could end up being even worse.” He sighed, shook his head. “Fuck. Can’t even imagine _worse._ I’m tired, Ada. I’m fuckin... tired.” His voice trailed off and his eyes trailed upwards, watching the flight of the calling birds against the pale blue. 

“That’s an awful lot of bad news, sir,” said a voice behind him, and he turned and spun and he wasn’t carrying a gun, _fuck,_ when had the last time he hadn’t been carrying a gun been, _you idiot, Tommy-_

But it was only Annabelle, who was wearing the expression people wore on the rare occasion when they realized they had misjudged him, that they had told themselves to give him a chance, that what they had heard about him had been wrong and that he wasn’t bad, wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t scary. The expression they wore when they discovered that he was. But he kept his expression blank, just stared at her, wondering what had possessed her to sneak up on someone standing in front of a tomb. She looked down at the name, her soft voice respectful, a note of mourning in it that confused him. 

“She was your sister?” she asked, and it wasn’t her place, to ask him that, she should know better, most people knew better. But Tommy nodded. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby,” she said, actually sounding like she was. Tommy and Ada didn’t respond. After a moment of quiet between them interrupted only by the skittering of leaves across the cold ground, she said, “The dress is finished, sir.” 

“Yes, thank you, Annabelle. You can go home now,” Tommy said, his eyes fixed back on Ada’s name, carved into stone. 

“Yes, sir.” She said. “I’ll leave you alone.” She turned to go, but then seemed to change her mind, and paused. “Mr. Shelby, sir?” 

Tommy didn’t speak, but waited. 

“You have to take care of her, sir,” she said, her voice quietly ernest, and Tommy turned back from the grave to look at her over his shoulder, her dark complexion offset by her white dress. He was suddenly, viscerally reminded of his dreams, of Tessa in a white dress blooming red like red paint onto a rose, but before he could decide which question to ask his tailor, before he could chose which one of the thousands he should begin with, she glanced at the house behind her, turned to it, and began to walk away. He looked down at the little black box in his hand, and put it back in his pocket. 

  
  


Today, 9:01pm 

  
  


“FIRE!” A voice was yelling, drowned out by the applause, whispering into Tommy’s ears like a ghost. It came closer, louder, starting to be audible over the din, the faint drone of the plane long lost under the cacophony. “THERE’S A FIRE! GET BACK THROUGH THE HANGER!”

The whistles and shrieks of the cheering crowd began to meld into something like a buzzing swarm of confusion, something under laced with panic, still covering the hum of the plane, which Tommy knew to be growing louder with every passing second. Michael was pelting onto the lawn, his arms whipping, gesturing wildly, raising the alarm, the guests turning to the sound of his yells with expressions of shock and surprise. The Peaky's and Alfie’s men were still inside the hanger, instructed to wait until the crowd cleared, hoping that the confusion would deter any possible violence from erupting. But that would leave Tommy on the stage, on the cleared lawn, surrounded from all sides by trees that wrapped up and around to the little gathering of buildings, a perfect bottleneck. Tommy truly didn’t much care that it was _him_ on the stage, he had known it, he had prepared for it. It was who was standing next to him that mattered. 

“Tessa!” He shouted, over the milling crowd, which was rippling anxiously, Michael’s warnings spreading, heads turning back behind them to the four, smaller structures flanking the massive hanger, the roots of the buildings beginning to glow, baseboards lighting up windows like they were sat on coals. Tommy turned to her, the members of the orchestra dropping their instruments behind them as they fled, causing bangs that made Tessa jump, but her face was tilted up, looking into the sky a charcoal shade just one brighter than black, her diamonds and her eyes the only things reflecting any light. “You have to go! Get the fuck out of here!” 

She didn’t look down until he grabbed both her arms in his hands, saying her name and glancing back over his shoulder at the crowd, which had begun to stampede back up to the doors, she had to be in that crowd, she could not walk through no-man’s-land alone, their stares met, 

“No,” she said, simply, sounding just like her father, just like Polly, why didn’t these people ever fucking _listen_ to him- 

“Benson, get her into a fucking car,” Tommy said, letting go of her to pull out his Colt, already chambered, flicked the safety with his thumb, the Blinders had started letting people back through the doors, a few at a time, Tommy couldn’t spot the Germans in the sea of bodies, couldn’t see brown shirts or black boots, couldn’t tell if they were headed towards him, headed towards her- 

Benson stepped forward, hand out in a peaceful gesture, and Tessa flicked back the slit in her dress with a ripple of satin that looked black, like the sky looked black, the gun black in her grip as she pulled out her .32, cocked and pointed it in one hand. 

“Move and I shoot,” she said, her voice hard and cold, and Benson’s lips parted in affronted surprise, the crowd was nearly halfway gone, every second there were less places for her to hide, every second she was one closer to a bullet in the head, in the heart- 

Tommy lunged forward, grabbing the hand that was still at her side, her left hand, the left thumb, pressed down until he heard a sharp _pop_ as the knuckle dislocated, Tessa’s shriek as she lowered her gun from shock and pain, _Take care of her,_ echoed a soft voice in his mind, and he thought, _I will. I will. I will_ and then a shot, the first shot, rang over the heads of the remaining quarter of the crowd with an earsplitting _crack._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY YOU THOUGHT THE OTHER CLIFFHANGERS WERE BAD LMAOOOO now go yell at me in the comments pls!!


	21. Breath of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a harder way  
> And it's come to claim her  
> And I always say  
> "We should be together"  
> I can see below  
> 'Cause there's something in here  
> And if you are gone  
> I will not belong here
> 
> And I started to hear it again  
> But this time it wasn't the end  
> And the room was so quiet  
> And my heart is a hollow plain  
> For the devil to dance again  
> And the room was too quiet, oh  
> I was looking for a breath of life  
> A little touch of heavenly light  
> But all the choirs in my head sang "No, no!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK this chapter KICKED MY ASS and I am SO TIRED OF LOOKING AT IT ugh anyway heads up:  
> this shit is pretty much exactly as hard to read as it was to write, so like... good luck following it lmao pay attention to those time stamps bc otherwise you will be drowning. and honestly you still might anyway  
> so get your life vest and buoy bc we about to fling ourselves off this goddamn cliff.

Today, 9:06pm 

  
  
  


Benson couldn’t hear. He had been born with rather poor hearing, to begin with, and, to be perfectly honest, he shot a lot of guns. Both in the war, and after it. It was an occupational hazard to come home at night to his little flat with an angry buzz in his ears. A little bell-ringing didn’t bother him. But when he blinked his eyes open to a scene that looked like it was taken from a fanatic’s pamphlet warning of what awaits the sinners in hell, he couldn’t hear a sound. Not a whisper. He lifted his head in confusion, utterly disoriented, unsure which direction was up and which was down, and the scene formed in blurry snapshots in front of his eyes like a collage, Tessa, spinning in his kaleidoscope view, struggling to stand and illuminated by a strange reddish glow, he saw her mouth open and for a bizarre second he thought she was singing, and then he realized that no, she was screaming at the top of her lungs, silently, not even an echo making its way into his head, muffled like cotton, ringing like static, why was she screaming, where were they, what was-, 

He struggled to his knees, his movements heavy and lopsided, like his limbs were made of lead, trying to catch Tessa, who was on her feet, stepping forward, her mouth forming words he couldn’t read, moving like she was a ghost in the spectral world, as if there weren’t bullets flying around her, like she didn’t belong there, wait- _bullets?_ Why were there _bullets_ and then another _whizzed_ past his right shoulder, and Benson thought he might have felt it, somehow, because he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything, why was it so _bright,_

And then he heard, as if from his subconscious, under buried memories of dead comrades and severed limbs and brown dirt running red, the drone of a swooping plane. And it all came rushing back. 

The black sky was lightening with the smoke, the lawn illuminated by crackling debris, blazing fires scattered across the dead grass, too cold to catch, the frost steaming into the air as it encountered the flames, another bullet sank into the grass beside him, he could feel the impact of it into the earth through his palm, he pushed himself up, and as though in another room, there was someone quietly speaking, he could _hear_ it, he strained his ears and pulled his gun, 

“Tommy,” the voice whispered, and all Benson could think was _Who the fuck is “Tommy”?_ A fellow soldier in the war, a childhood friend, a man he had killed? Did it matter? 

“Tommy,” it said again, there was a shape coming out of the trees, towards him, towards Tessa, her knew, her, at least, he knew this part, this part was easy, this part he remembered, this part he understood- 

The dark shape moved closer, the voice grew louder, repeating that same name, Benson pulled his gun and aimed and shot and the figure recoiled and dropped to the ground and Benson’s right ear popped with the pull of the trigger, and then he heard, in shocking clarity for only having one-sided auditory processing, the voice, Tessa’s voice, screaming in a broken shriek, the worst sound he had ever heard- 

“THOMAS!” 

2 Years and 4 Months Earlier 

Sometime around 7am 

  
  


  
  


The stairs creaked as Tommy descended them, just like they always had, but he didn’t even consider trying to keep his footsteps light, tugging on his cap back on and thinking about his conversation with Solomons, wondering what the chances were that he would betrayed or swindled, wondering what the fuck kind of backup Tommy could come up with if he did, wondering if Solomons would even agree at all in the first place, so focused on his path to the door that he nearly walked right past Ada, who was sitting in a kitchen chair with her legs pulled up to her chin. 

“Where are you running off to?” she called, casually, idily spinning her spoon through her porridge, as if unconsciously rejecting the poor quality food after the past year of luxurious dining. They were doing well, now. The family. 

“Morning, Ada. Where’s Karl?” Tommy asked, evenly, and she looked rather disappointed that she hadn’t succeeded in making him jump.

“Pol’s got him,” Ada said, “said she needed to make a stop for some food actually worth eating,” she continued, glaring down at her bowl. “She should be here any minute. I only just arrived, myself.” 

How long had he stood upstairs? How had he not heard her car pull up? What the fuck was wrong with him? He nodded at her, distractedly, 

“What time’s it?” he asked, and she made a vague face. 

“Little after seven.” 

“Alright, I ‘ave to go,” he told her, it was all so familiar, the room, the light, the booming of the factories in the distance. 

“Where?” Ada asked, casually, but he just looked at her. They both knew how the conversation would go, the words as well-worn as the kitchen table. 

“Meetings,” Tommy said, brusquely, pulling on his suit jacket, even though he could have fucking sworn he had only just removed it five minutes ago. Tessa had been curled up in his bed, her eyes fluttering under her closed lids, clutching the poppy pipe, and he had watched her shoulders rise and fall, unable to look away, with an odd feeling in his chest that made him deeply uneasy. 

“Where’s the girl?” Ada asked, like she had read his thoughts, blinking innocently at him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. 

“What girl?” Tommy said, flatly, to be annoying, straightening his tie, because he could afford ties, now, and that was something. He even paid for them, sometimes. Ada rolled her eyes, and Tommy caught her look. 

“What?” he asked, even though he knew. 

“Nothing,” she said, slightly sing-song, and Tommy scoffed. 

“Ada. What?” 

Ada set one leg down delicately and rested her chin on the other, smiling benignly. 

“Could it be true? Is it _really_ possible?” she asked, her voice dripping heavy incredulity, whispering as if enjoying an inside joke with herself, and Tommy shook his head, 

“Ada, stop. Stop with that look. I know that fuckin’ look.” 

Ada just smiled serenely. He glared at her. 

“I think,” she said, happily, “that you _enjoy_ Miss Reilly’s company. I think that you’re rather _taken_ with her, even.” She _tsked,_ and Tommy looked back at her, stone-faced. 

“What else do you think?” he asked, and Ada frowned. 

“What about?” she asked, considering another bite of porridge and deciding against it. Tommy flicked his eyes up towards the ceiling. She thought for a moment, her face pale in the early morning light. Tommy wondered if she had slept, if she had slept enough. She used to get nightmares, after Freddy went, but she said they weren’t so bad now. He hoped she was telling the truth. Ada clicked her tongue, considering. 

“I think she’s trouble, really. Which means _you_ will be completely unable to stop yourself, of course.” She smiled wryly down at the old table, running a hand over the wood, softened with age. “None of us ever can.” 

“So is that a nay?” Tommy asked, and Ada chucked in disbelief. 

“What is this?” she asked, half incredulous and half taking the mickey. “Tommy Shelby, asking for _permission_?” 

“Your opinion is important to me,” he said, and she rolled her eyes like she didn’t believe him for a second, but a small, surprised smile skimmed across her face. 

“Do what you want,” Ada said, fluttering her hand and giving up on her porridge completely, dropping her spoon with a clatter, reminding Tommy briefly of the clumsy youth she had so outgrown. “You were going to, anyway.” 

Tommy hummed and leaned down to kiss her cheek, pulling his other arm through his sleeve. “Got places to be,” he said, “Love you.” 

He was leaving the kitchen when he heard Ada spin in her chair. 

“Tom?” she asked, and he said, “Yeah?” from the cigarette he had just taken out. 

“‘Meetings’”? She repeated, the doubt in her tone obvious. 

“Delegations, Ada,” Tommy called over his shoulder, and he heard her pause, and then sigh. He had turned again, when she called out, 

“You’ve been searching for things for a long time, Tom. Maybe you’ve found one.” He halted in the doorway, his fingers on the handle. “If you want my opinion… just don’t fuck up, hmm? It’s worth getting into some trouble, sometimes,” she said, and he smiled very barely as he pushed open the door. 

Today, 9:04pm 

  
  
  


As it turned out, getting shot wasn’t that bad. Well, it _was_ , for a blinding second when Tessa was genuinely worried her arm had been blown off, but she couldn’t even feel it now, she realized, in a blank, disconnected sort of way, her numb hand pressed against her even number shoulder as she sprinted full-stop across the lawn, running so fast that when she snapped her head back over her shoulder mid-step, her vision was blurry to the point she could barely see Tommy, who was moving quickly on the stage, she couldn’t even tell what she was doing, could only really make out Benson, a half meter behind her, his gun aloft, pulling a black bandana from his pocket and tying it hurriedly over his nose and mouth as he ran, his Peaky hat pulled low, most of his face obscured. 

“RUN!” He shouted at her, voice muffled by the cloth and the drone of the plane, pointing towards the ever-dwindling crowd. Then Tessa saw, from her peripheral vision and with a jolt of terror, flashes of brown, brown shirts and black boots, not in the crowd but emerging from the trees like dark spirits, flanking her and Benson on both sides, more than eight, more than twenty, but they didn’t even glance at the two figures sprinting past them to the hanger, just started moving, out from the trees, towards the stage, like shadows come to life, weapons raising- 

Tessa’s shout of warning was drowned out in a storm of gunfire, rocketing off of the dark heavens and cracking the sky open like an egg, a distant boom of thunder completely drowned out by the blasts but the faint, delayed lighting catching on the gleaming barrels of guns pointed at the rear stage, and Tessa watched as the wood was getting torn apart by the maelstrom waves of bullets, she couldn’t see him, where was he, where WAS HE- 

And then the earth shook. 

9:05pm 

  
  


_BOOM._

The very ground trembled. The hangar lit up suddenly, spectacularly, the flickering candles dwarfed by a sudden explosion of light that seemed to stop time, that seemed to turn night to day, Michael instinctively dropped, head ducked under his arms, surrounded by a mob of others, all of whom reacted in similar ways, in the same second, the massive bay windows high on the back wall of the building, covered by the even more enormous Union Jack, burst like a dropped Christmas bobble, with a crash of exploding glass halfway across the stadium-sized room. The candles sputtered out. Crystal dinnerware, sparkling on long tables, tinkled and chimed, rose petals shimmied and danced to the ground, the ice statues were dripping in earnest now, trickling down onto the floor like the last few socialites frantically scattering out of the front doors, speeding away in their vehicles, shrieking in terror from the bullets and the fire and now from the glowing, rising light in the sky past the shattered windows, angry flames billowing and licking into the dark like a volcanic eruption. And as suddenly as it had happened, it was dark again. Darker even, now, without the low candlelight. Michael couldn’t hear bullets anymore past the walls anymore, just the plane overhead, circling like a bird of prey, the roar of the engine echoing through the room past the broken windows, people around him were beginning to rise, staring in slack-mouthed horror at the wreckage-,

“What the _fuck_ was that?!” Michael shouted at his mother, who had ducked quickly behind one of the model vehicles when the room had exploded but who was slowly leaning past it, looking up at the shredded flag, ripped to pieces by the glass, draping its ruined tatters of red and white and blue. Despite the chaos, and the glittering chunks of glass scattered on the ground before the back door, some of them a foot tall, impaled into the wood, Polly grinned back at him over her shoulder, ear to ear, sparkling like the broken glass in her silver dress. _She really is mad,_ Michael thought, the plane outside droned, 

“ _That,"_ Polly nearly whispered, her smile sharp like a shark. “was the signal. He’s always loved causing a bang.” 

  
  


9:06pm // Two Years and Four Months Earlier, Today, Yesterday, Always

  
  


He was waking up from sedation. He was lying in a hospital bed. It was so bright, everything was so bright for a moment, like flames, like whipping hair, 

“Who the fuck is Thomas Shelby?” someone was saying, muffled and distorted, _Thomas Shelby,_ the voice rang, like an echo against stone, bouncing around his head. _Thomas Shelby. Thomas Shelby._

He was leaning over a black car tipped on its side, with steam hissing from under its hood, on the side of a road in the outskirts of London, underneath a clear night sky. A man inside the car was trying to kill him. A voice from behind him screamed a name, the same voice, the same name, 

_THOMAS!_

But he couldn’t open his eyes, he didn’t even remember when he had closed them-, 

_TOMMY!_

_“TOMMY!”_

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hands up if you don't know what the FUCK is going on lmao but don't worry bc I do. this is a trust exercise okay?? pretend we're in counseling and we're working on building intimacy or something. AND I think this chapter is technically too confusing to be a cliffhanger so look, honey! I'm improving already! right?? kinda? love you either way.


	22. The Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open up, drink it in, don't ask too many questions  
> Become the vessel for the shame they feed you through suggestion  
> There's a rumor on the breeze, secrets that bring you to your knees  
> We made the problem, we are the poison
> 
> Close your eyes, surrender your beliefs to them for holding  
> Wait patiently to hear what ever-changing lines are showing  
> There's a whisper in the wind, eventual storm that's rolling in  
> They have the answers, cure for the cancer we've become
> 
> All they wanted was violence  
> To plant their seeds and divide us  
> If they want the worst that's inside us  
> We'll bring on the violence,  
> The violence
> 
> Back and forth, daily take apart what you've been building  
> Everything you have is to be fed into the system  
> There's a force out pushing fear, a deafening silence drawing near  
> Sit, absorb it, guess we've been toxic all along
> 
> All they wanted was...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HAPPENINGGGGGGGG its happening its fucking happening! FINALLY finally finally I am so excited holy shit. I am also like, glowing with pride bc I feel really good about my objectively awful decision to try to intertwine not only multiple perspectives but multiple timelines. it's been a pretty hard cuntpunch ngl but I'm happy with how it's turning out okay I'm sorry I'll stop talking, now, fr, are you ready?

Today, 9:02pm 

  
  


Tommy fired. Tessa crumpled. 

9:06pm

  
  
  


Alfie Solomons, Tommy’s business partner, happened to be immediately to Michael’s left, leaning casually against the metal support beam he had dogged behind after the blast, observing the devastation for a moment with a crooked eyebrow. Michael only recognized him because someone had pointed Solomons out to him that night, as he had never so much as spoken to the man, and Tommy never talked about anyone. Michael couldn’t have cared less, at the moment, anyway, quickly moving forward to make sure his mother was alright, to make sure she was- he didn’t even know. Polly turned back from the broken windows, her lips still quirked upwards, but humorlessly, almost viciously. The assembled men were stirring, Michael hadn’t even tried to count how many, all armed with the most illegal weapons he had ever seen. “Military contracts from the government,” Michael had heard Tommy say once on the telephone. The Blinders and the Jews had been rather distinctly separated before whatever the fuck had happened on the lawn, the peakys ushering guests through the hanger as the fires in the surrounding buildings raged higher. The Jews had stood quietly, lined against the walls, most of the watching Alfie, who had watched serenely with his hands tucked into his pockets and an expression of mild interest on his face as people flew past him, screaming frantically. Then the bomb, or whatever it was that had made the noise, dropped, and everyone had scattered like mice, now emerging slowly from their holes. Michael rather thought Alfie’s men were wearing expressions like they hadn’t realized what they had gotten themselves into. The Blinders looked afraid. Shots rang out again through the trees behind the building, cracking like snapped trees. Michael approached his mother and went to reach for her, but his mum stepped carefully past him on the dropped china, shaken from the tables and shattered on the floor, and began walking slowly, as if in a trance, towards the back bay doors. Michael was about to run forward to stop her, to grab her wrist and pull her back, when she turned again. Her voice cut through the murmur of confused and trepidatious voices, addressing the crowd. From his position in the middle of it, Michael couldn’t fathom a guess as to how many of them there were, it looked still looked almost like a party, with the press of bodies, it looked almost like an army. They were passing around guns, a Jewish man with a long beard handed one to Michael, a small silver revolver, and winked. 

“That was the signal, gentlemen. If you would be so kind as to don your masks,” Polly said, in the voice she used to strike the fear of God into the weak hearts of men. Most of the gathered company immediately began to rustle in their pockets for the same black bandana, peaky rims flashing as faces lowered to fasten the cloth over their mouths and noses, but some hesitated, wringing the material in their hands or peeking around the shoulders of their neighbors at the billowing smoke in the night sky. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” His aunt asked them pointedly, “That was the signal! What, do you lot need me to have a whistle, as well?” 

A few rather sheepishly muttered responses from around the room, some faces still staring at the tatters of the flag in shock, some eyes still roaming uneasily over the shattered windows, some heads swivelling to catch the sudden sound of bullets shot off on the back lawn, and Polly seethed. 

“Have you forgotten who you are? Have you forgotten where you come from, what you’ve done to protect it?” she asked, several pairs of eyes skittered away from her in shame. When she continued, her voice was soft and dangerous. 

“Have you _forgotten_ who _we_ are?” she hissed, and a louder, stronger, 

“No, Mrs. Gray,” choroused a few rough voices back. Polly drew herself up, clicking open her little beaded clutch and pulling out a .22. She continued in a voice of warning that made the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck rise. 

“Those men are coming here. They are coming for you. For your daughters, and your sons, and your nieces and nephews, like they came for mine. Now, if you are men at all, you will fight for what’s yours, or you will be bested by a woman near twice your age, and I will tell my nephews the names and faces of those who deserted their company. And dishonorable discharge is a _nasty_ business in my family.” Her dark eyes shone out like the few remaining candles, buffeted by the outside breeze, flickering in their holders. Alfie was nodding solemnly at his men as if he was standing in a synagogue agreeing with the rabbi. 

“Oh,” Polly added distractedly, sliding her pistol back to check the rounds, the snap of steel echoing off the huge room, where her voice and the buzz of the plane and another round of rapid gunfire were the only other sounds. “The Germans are flouting their fascist rhetoric especially blatantly tonight,” She said, slow and deliberate. “Thomas wanted me to tell you that the man who brings him the highest number will be given a bonus of twenty thousand pounds, for acknowledgement of special services.” The men around him murmured quietly. Michael remembered a time when he could have bought himself an entirely new life with twenty thousand pounds. He remembered a time when he had. A hand went up, across the crowd, as if they were in a lesson. Polly raised her eyebrows at the man but did not address him, instead sliding her eyes over him and back across the gathered faces. 

“Your country needs you!” She snapped, at the gathered gang, like Zeus dolling out lighting, “Your general needs you!”

She pointed behind her past the destroyed back wall, Michael could see the grey smoke rising in the distance, a few men yelled in affirmation, their calls rebounding off of the darkened room, his mum’s eyes looked dark and thundering like the sky. 

“Now, who. Are. You?” Polly demanded, and Michael thought that if anyone was the general, it was her, and twenty, thirty, fourty, hundreds, it seemed, of voices, responded, 

‘PEA-KY BLINDERS!” like a boom of thunder, maybe it had been thunder, over their heads, “PEA-KY BLINDERS! PEA-KY BLINDERS!” The men roared, continuing their chant even as they rushed past Michael and Polly in a sudden, swarming motion, with a great yell of voices rising into the heavens, their shining shoes cracking over the broken glass, handkerchiefs covering their faces and caps layered with razors, raising their weapons and _WHOOPING_ into the night so loudly Michael couldn’t hear the plane, couldn’t hear the bullets, he was looking at his mother, who was watching the backs of the men she had just sent to die disappear through the doorway, a shockingly grave expression on her face that she covered when she noticed his stupefied stare. Solomon’s men were watching him closely, until all of the remaining eyes in the room were fixed on the spot where he stood just to Michael’s side, his shoulder still braced unconcernedly against the wrought iron post. He blinked, and Michael’s heart lept into his mouth, _he was going to take his men and leave, he was going to abandon them and they were all going to die-,_

Alfie Solomons cleared his throat and waved a large hand. 

“A’right. ‘Ave at it,” he said, and the men that had remained so quiet throughout the night cheered and screamed and yelled so loudly the glass sprinkling the floor might have rattled, charging like a herd of bulls, white handkerchiefs pulled up and guns held aloft. Solomons gave Polly a sweeping salute, then followed his men at an easy pace, his cane thudding dully against the floor with his advance as he made his casual way across the floor. Michael turned back to his mother. 

“And what was _that?”_ he said, his shocked chuckle dry in his mouth like he had been breathing dust. His mum just blinked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, her arms folded, watching Solomon’s silhouette. 

“Power, Michael,” Polly said, sounding like she had lived for a thousand years, like she was ancient and ageless. 

Michael’s eyes narrowed at the doors where the Blinders just disappeared. 

“They were cowards. They should have wanted to fight,” Michael murmured. Polly scoffed quietly, and it was almost a sad sound. 

“No one wants to fight, Michael.” 

“I do,” he said, firmly. She looked at him. 

“Because you haven’t _had_ to,” Polly snapped. “You got to set your fires, now go home,” she said, stiffly, “Tommy’s orders.” 

“' _Tommy's orders_ '?! Tommy could be fucking dead, mum!” Michael retorted, and anger flashed across her face. 

“ _If_ Tommy _is_ dead, it’s me who’ll be the one takes his place at the head of this company,” she spat, from the lawn, more bullets were being fired, Michael’s fingers were itching around the little silver revolver, he needed to be there, he needed to be out there, to prove himself, 

“Nah,” Michael said, coldly, because he wasn’t a fucking child anymore, he never had been, he had never gotten the chance to be- “It’ll be Tessa.” 

Polly recoiled slightly, as if he had whipped a cut across her cheek with a sliver of the glass. 

“She said you told her to get rid of the baby,” Michael said, and his mum’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I fucking know about that,” Michael said, before she could raise the question. “And you know what I think, _mum?”_ He asked, reveling in it, a bit, the satisfaction of knowing he was right, “I think that you _envy_ her. I think resent that she has the one thing that you want but can’t have. I think you’ve been waiting all these years, telling yourself that the old Tommy will come back some day. He’s not _coming back, mum,”_ Michael hissed, Polly’s eyes were gleaming, acid was bubbling in his stomach. “He’s not coming back _for you_. But somehow she does it, somehow she manages it. And I think you hate her for it.” 

Polly sighed and shook her head very slowly, a tear tracking down her face. 

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Michael asked, realizing suddenly. “Another girl.” He clicked his tongue. “Standing between you and your favorite son.”

Another tear leaked down his mum’s face, he had caused it, _She caused it,_ responded another voice in Michael’s mind, _she caused it and if Tommy ever found out what she had told Tessa, he might hurt her, he might kill her._ Polly put a hand against his cheek, her palm cool even through the material of his handkerchief. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Polly spoke. 

“Babies are not meant to be born drenched in this kind of blood,” She said, quietly, _I think your mum might be a witch, mate,_ Isiah had said once. “That child will enter this life with big, blue eyes, Michael.” And he stalled, confused, staring at her, trying to make out her meaning. She turned away from him. “Shelby eyes,” Polly said, there were voices coming closer up the back lawn, and she did not turn away from the doors. “It’s the eyes that are cursed,” she said, very softly, Michael could hear footsteps but couldn’t make out the figures, “and that’s why we take them.” Polly cocked the hammer of her pistol, leveling it at the bay doors, at the dark shapes approaching. 

“Go home,” she told him. “That's an order.” 

  
  
  
  


Today, 9:04pm 

  
  
  


Tommy heard Tessa’s shriek of warning from somewhere up the lawn, _how far had she gotten?_ He wondered, _was she safe?_ for only a millisecond, before the air cracked over and over like reality was shattering, distorting and rolling with the thunder of gunfire, and he dove behind the stage, bullets landing so near him he could see the bits of dirt they sent flying on impact, army crawling to the spot in the grass chalked with a white X that nearly shone out of the dark, ignoring the dirt, the bullets, fighting the tense, flashing lights bursting from behind his eyes, as if the alarm bells in his mind had been set off, wood chips exploding over his shoulder as bullets hit the supports of the stage. He reached under them, feeling around, pulling out an M1918 and a Tommy gun wrapped in waterproof tarp, the steel frozen in his palms, spinning and coming to a crouch to put his back to the hail of bullets, loading the clip and magazine, the _pop pop pop_ growing louder and louder as the Perish advanced, his hands steady, somehow, like they hadn’t picked up on the threat yet. 

“In the bleak midwinter,” he muttered, eyes squeezed closed and head against the solid wood of the stage, and over the advancing gunshots, his military-issue radio crackled in his pocket, saying his name. 

“TOM! TOMMY! COME IN, YA FUCKIN’ WANKER! TOM!” 

“ARTHUR, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” Tommy shouted, receiver pressed to his desperate lips, _pop pop poppopop_ went the guns, drowning out the radio for a moment, then-

“LOOK UP, MAN!!” said the very scratchy voice, and as Tommy tilted his head to see up past the back of the stage, the Biff swooped low in the dark sky, breaking through the clouds like a falling stone, the roar of the engine silencing the shower of bullets as the Germans pointed fingers instead of guns into the sky, completely dumbfounded, Tommy pulled a black handkerchief from the jacket of his tuxedo, tied it around his face, pulled it up over his nose, pressed the button to speak. His chest was heaving. 

“Tell me when, Arthur,” he said, and there was a loud pause of jarring static from the radio before Arthur responded, his voice fast as the bullets that had begun to rain again as the Perish turned their scopes back to the stage, 

“The plane paused ‘em, but they’re fuckin’ coming now, Tom, they’re comin’ atcha- NOW, GO, TOM, GO!,” Tommy pulled the detonator in the center of the X from the ground, stood, spun, and sprinted away, under the cover of the stage, the guns over his shoulders slowing him down, there were three Germans coming around the corner of the stage, Arthur’s distorted voice still speaking over the radio as they aimed again and Tommy _ran,_ the wire spool quickly unraveling, his breath and heartbeat rattling in his ears alongside his brother’s words, sprinting towards the ditch they had dug, ten meters away, now five, as a bullet brushed so closely to his ankle he thought it might have gone through his black trousers, he was sliding into the hole now, like a trench, like a grave, Arthur was speaking,- “give ‘em three seconds, bruva, TWO, ONE-,” 

Tommy sucked in a breath and pressed the little red button under his thumb, turning to watch over the lip of the dirt trench, and the stage blew, with an earth shattering _BOOM,_ sending a cloud to the heavens, orange and glowing like the sun was falling up from the earth, and wave of heat that made him cover his head with his arms, saw debris falling through the sky, or bodies, or both, and then everything went black. 

  
  
  


9:02pm 

  
  


Tessa dropped, but he caught her before she hit her knees, her quick, piercing scream cut suddenly short like she was choking, sending dark birds fluttering into the sky from the leafless trees, her injured hand subconsciously shooting up to grip her shoulder, causing another high keen of pain, the sounds rolling into Tommy’s gut like iron fists, pummeling him from the outside in, he cradled her body, which was folded like a paper doll, he remembered a white dress stained with red-

“ _Did you just fucking_ shoot me?!” she gasped out, staring down in complete shock at the hole in her arm, her arm already dripping dark blood, he thought her limbs were shaking, but maybe that was him, but she was concious, she was speaking, “What the _FUCK-,”_

“Look at me! Fucking LOOK AT ME, TESSA!” He commanded, she was still gazing at the bullethole in horror, he took her chin and yanked her face to the side, forced her glazed eyes to meet his, put his hand over her shoulder, pressing down with his palm, blood leaking between his fingers like water rising from the dirt, Tessa hissed and flinched in pain and anger, like an fox in a snare, “You can’t fight now, Tessa! You can’t fuckin’ shoot! Now get the _fuck_ out of here!” 

He brought her to her unsteady feet, let go, there were tears sparkling in her eyes like the gems around her throat- 

“I am not _fucking_ _leaving_ -,” she snapped, her eyes still hazy with pain, he bellowed “GO!” so loudly in her face that she recoiled, and he saw for one frozen second the same expression she had made when he pulled the trigger, he saw the horror, the betrayal. She turned, and ran, blessedly, finally, ran, across the stage, her heels clacking against the freshly-cut wood, the bodies like shadows disappearing into the hangar across the lawn, thinning like clouds against the morning sun. 

“Cover her!” Tommy barked at Benson, who shot him a hateful glare Tommy more than deserved, of fucking course he deserved it, he deserved all of this, everything that was happening to him, “Keep fuckin’ pressure on that arm!” Benson didn’t nod, just turned, his long strides reaching Tessa before she had taken more than a couple of steps past the bottom of the stairs, above them, there was a deep, rumbling roar, growing and growing and growing in the night. 

  
  


9:06 

  
  


The good thing, really, was that Benson had nearly three heads of height and four stone of weight over Tessa. He caught her around the waist, managing to drag himself to his feet just before she took off straight towards the wreckage at a dead sprint, flaming debris and ash still floating through the air, which was shrouded in billowing black smoke that hovered over the bright gleam of the remaining bones of the stage, flames licking it’s supports like they were nothing but matchsticks that had been waiting to be struck. 

“TESSA!” Benson bellowed from behind her, clamping her arms to her sides, because he knew her name, he had never been more grateful to know someone’s name, he had to reach her, they had to move, “We have to-,” but she crumpled suddenly to her knees like they had been shot out from under her, for a moment, he was terrified that they had, his head was whipping around, trying to spy the enemy, at the head of the lawn, figures were streaming out of a building with doors fifteen meters high- 

Benson lifted Tessa in his arms before he could have the thought, the terrifying thought, and he ran. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. listen to me. I love u. I love u  
> I know some of my readers are tying to take exams rn and I am making it very difficult to do so, and I am sending u guys the most love of all.


	23. Bang Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come over here baby come and be my bride  
> You and me baby we could tire the night  
> While everybody's sleeping we could be on fire  
> Kiss and bang bang be like guns for hire  
> I said love die, love die  
> Stick a little needle right into my eye  
> I wanna tell ya how to get away
> 
> Put the preacher in your pocket put the blade to the heat  
> Come and ride with me honey take the fire to the street  
> Put your prayers 'neath your pillow put your bible to bed  
> Come and dance with me honey we could raise up the dead
> 
> I said love hate, love hate  
> Everybody's got it honey just you wait  
> I wanna tell ya how to get away
> 
> Run run just for fun  
> Me and my baby got a loaded gun  
> Dancin' on the stool ain't scared to hang  
> Knockin' on your door singing "Bang bang bang"
> 
> Forget about your trouble, honey, you ain't got none  
> When your soul is your shadow and your god is the sun

9:07pm 

  
  


The figures emerging from the darkness were sharpening, Michael pulled the hammer of the pistol, which took more effort than he had been expecting, given that it was so small. He had seen Arthur do it enough times, he had shot rifles before, with John. “It’s easy, Michael,” Tommy had said to him, his tone flat and closed, when Michael had asked to learn. “You just point. Pull the trigger.” 

Michael could feel his mother tensing by his shoulder, the figures turned out to just be one- two? The shape was strangely lopsided through the darkness, there was a man holding something, carrying something, _was it a weapon?_ Michael thought frantically, his face was briefly illuminated as he passed one of the massive, flaming marble brasiers just inside the doors, everything smelled of smoke, the air was thick with it like fog, 

“Mum- WAIT,” Michael shouted, as Polly pulled the trigger, a shot cracked into the dark, hitting the very center of the marble, shattering the cup off of its stem. 

“It’s alright, Michael,” Polly said, quietly, her shoulder, next to him, her shoulder like steel. “That was a warning.” 

“Don’t fucking _shoot_ at me!” Benson’s voice responded roughly from the misty darkness. “Fucking Shelby’s!” 

“Shit,” Polly hissed, picking up her dress in the hand not holding her gun and hurrying foreward, Michael at her heels, trying not to skid on the slippery glass. It _was_ Benson, alright, Michael could see him now, and he _was_ holding something, no, someone- 

Tessa was small in his arms. 

  
  


7:42pm 

  
  
  


Lucy wiped at her eyes, commanding herself to control her stuttering breaths, but she couldn’t get the air in, it felt like her airway was being crushed by the heel of a boot, the fear dripping down her spine like rain, Tommy’s threats still ringing in her ears, her mother’s face swimming in her mind, wondering if she was ever to see her again. She stood unsteadily, panic flooding through her, the chair legs squeaking, grating across the floor as she pushed it back, making her flinch. She made her way unsteadily to the door, turning the handle. It didn’t budge. 

“FUCK,” Lucy swore, kicking it, making her toe throb in her rather worn heels. “FUCK!” She cursed again, but no one was coming to save her, she wondered if Tommy was coming back, wondered what was meant to happen at the party, wondered how the fuck she was going to escape, _bombs,_ they had said. _Before we deploy the bombs._ She had known about the Blinders, she had known what they did. She told herself she simply wouldn’t get involved, deluded herself into believing it would be just that easy. And now someone was dead because of her, and she was locked in a room, one much too proximate to the bloody _bombs_ that were apparently planted somewhere. Lucy’s breathing, which she had just begun making progress on slowing, jumped, coming in sharp pangs twice as quickly as before. She tried the windows, she kicked at the door, she screamed. And then she sat back down, and trembled. 

  
  


9:00pm 

  
  


There were voices outside the windows, to make up for the lack of noise from the guests, Lucy wasn’t sure where they had all gone, why the faint sounds of the party had dulled to near silence. She wasn’t sure why there were now men outside the walls, their rough shouts fading slightly as if they were moving away. She peered out of one of the windows into the dark night, at the smaller, grungier buildings set around the main factory, saw with a jolt of horror a trail of little, gleaming flames in the distance, lighting up the fronts of the men who were holding them, black-tie clad but with handkerchiefs pulled up to cover their faces, all wearing flat caps pulled low, one of them was shouting, and she recognized the voice. 

“ON THREE!” Michael Gray yelled, the bright flames were raised obediently, molotovs like burning stars fallen to earth, Lucy whispered, “Oh _no,”_ as Michael’s countdown ended, and the bottles crashed through dirty gray windows, very faintly, she thought she could hear the same noise echoing from the other side of the hangar, _How far can fire jump?_ Lucy thought, terrified, _when are the bombs going off? How the_ fuck _am I going to get out of here?_ And the flames took to the dry walls of the shop out the window, the one with the huge metal garage doors, like dripping red hands wrapping around wooden necks, strangling the dark mass until it began to glow. 

  
  


9:05pm 

  
  


**BOOM.** Went a shockwave through the floor, rattling the paperweights on the desk, the single, low bulb swaying in the center of the room erratically, throwing strange patterns of shadows over the dark room. Lucy dove under the sturdy desk, head between her knees, whispering a prayer from her mother that she wasn’t sure she would have been able to remember the words to in any other circumstance, her hands gripping the legs of the table until her knuckles turned white. 

9:11pm 

  
  


Someone shot the doorknob off. Lucy shoved her knuckles into her mouth to smother her scream. 

  
  
  


9:08pm

  
  


“What’s happened?” Polly snapped, Benson dropped as softly to his knees as he could manage, his hands shaking, his fingers slippery and dark. Tessa’s eyes were closed. 

“Your nephew,” he snapped, and Michael breathed a soft, confused, “What?” as Polly reached to check Tessa’s pulse, the terror flooding through her veins lessening after a moment when she felt the blood pumping steadily in Tessa’s neck. 

“Benson,” Polly snapped, speaking very clearly.“Tell me what happened.” 

And what she really meant was _“What happened to Tommy?”_ Because she loved that furious, daring, _stupid_ little girl in her arms like she had loved Ada, but Tommy had always found a way to buy her flowers on her birthday, even when they hadn’t the money for bread and she would scold him for it, Tommy had turned up at the sewing factory she was working in when times were especially hard and slammed the foreman’s head off the wall when he found out the awful man had been grabbing at Polly’s arse when she passed, Tommy who had once taken in a stray kitten until the neighbor boys had strung it up a lightpost for him to find. Polly hated cats, always had, but she would have pretended not to ever notice he was hiding it. For him. _Your favorite son, your favorite son, your-_

“Your nephew,” Benson repeated shortly, how many times had someone said that to her, wearing that same expression? “Shot her in the arm.” 

“Where is he?” Polly asked, over Michael’s incredulous exhale, his gaze dropping to Tessa, Polly couldn’t bring herself to look-, 

“Probably dead,” Benson deadpanned, Polly stiffened like she had been hit with an electric shock. Tessa shifted slightly, her fingers flickering, Polly heard as if through someone else’s ears that she was whispering, “No,” under her breath. Tessa’s hair was coming down in earnest now, spilling over her shoulders, sticking to the blood drenching her right shoulder. She and Benson were both streaked with dirt, the one of the knees of Benson’s tuxedo was ripped. Nothing was real, to Polly. Nothing was happening, so it was easy to see the logic in it all. It was easy. 

“Wake her up,” Polly said suddenly to Benson, who started slightly and stared at her with his soft brown eyes. “We need to move, and if you’re carrying her you’ll be held back.” 

Benson hesitated, and Michael tossed a quick glance at his mother. 

“Er, mum _,”_ he muttered to her, “I don’t think anyone wants to be the one who has to hit _her_ -,” and Polly snapped, 

“What? Better than a bullet, isn’t it? Tommy can keep his hypocrisy shut tight in his mouth where it belongs-,” 

“Wasn’t talking about Tommy-,” Michael was saying through slightly gritted teeth, nodding at Tessa, who was sitting up, and blindly reaching for her gun like she had forgotten about the bullethole, eyes flickering under half-closed lids blinking woozily open, 

“Tommy,” was the first word out of her mouth, Polly was hardly surprised, Christ, those two- 

“Tess,” Benson said, his voice calm and soothing. His composure had always rather impressed Polly. Had Tommy not told her about him, Polly might have tried to sleep with him. He gently moved Tessa’s hand from her reach for her thigh, speaking slowly and clearly to her. “You’ve got shot. You need to stay still, alright?” 

“What?” Tessa said, like he was speaking in another language, and then her head snapped to the side suddenly as if she had just remembered she possessed limbs. She blinked confusedly down at her arm, which Benson had tied with what Polly saw, with a flash of horrid amusement, was a strip of heavy linen dyed a bright, British red, that was made darker by blood, a fragment of the slashed flag. She wasn’t sure how the colonial monarchy fit in with Gypsy superstitions, but she had a bad feeling that blood on a flag was far from a positive omen. “I got shot?” Tessa asked, like none of the words being said to her were making any sense. 

“Fuck,” Michael muttered, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, his handkercheif pulled down off his face. 

“Yes. Tommy shot you,” Benson told her, his tone cold, and Polly hissed, 

“Christ, Benson, don’t _tell her that right now-,”_ but it was much too late. Tessa’s eyebrows rose. 

“He _shot_ me?” she said, and Tessa was not the sort of girl who needed things repeated to her. There was a beat of incredibly tense silence in their little gathering as her brow furrowed slightly, and then her lovely face crinkled, and she began to laugh. 

“What the fuck is going on,” Michael muttered in an undertone to his mother, who clicked her tongue, reaching out to Tessa, who waved her off, doubling over, the bright sound of her laughter eerily stark against the ringing silence in the hangar. Polly couldn’t hear any guns. 

“Fuck, she’s in shock,” Polly said, a sliver of broken crystal sliced her knee as she braced it against the floor. Tessa was sucking in air, opposite hand pressed to the cloth tied around her upper arm, and her thumb was swollen, and Polly felt a sudden flash of revulsion, and thought, _What did you_ do _, Thomas?_ Because she knew he was out there, she knew he was, he was not dead, but he would wish he was when she had finished with him, she was going to wring that boy’s neck-, 

Benson was still crouched behind Tessa, who had sat up, albeit a bit lopsidedly, leaning against the steel wall with her good shoulder. Her breaths were quieting, but it looked like all the blood in her face had leeched out through her arm, Polly could see her pale even through the darkness, her alabaster skin nearly glowing, but when she tried to reach out a hand, Tessa flinched back. 

“If you both could back the _fuck_ away from me for a moment,” Tessa spat, her voice suddenly completely composed, half uncooth, half entirely polite. Polly and Benson both pulled back immediately, apologetically, Polly’s bloody knee leaving a streak on the floor where she dragged it. Tessa was looking at her arm, wincing. She pressed against it softly with the functioning fingers of her other hand, a hiss of pain escaping between her teeth. “And one of you give me some fucking snow,” she added, commanded, and Benson’s eyes narrowed but he did not voice his concern. They all remained perfectly still, an ice sculpture a bit away from them slowly _drip drip dripping_ onto the floor, the high metal beams of the building’s exposed skeleton catching the glowing orange from beyond the intact windows along its sides. It did not look like the fires had made the jump from the outer buildings to the main factory, at the very least. _Not yet, anyway,_ Polly thought, desperately. Tessa made an incredibly impatient face. 

“Sod off,” she bit at them, “I fucking know _one_ of you has some. Hand it over.” 

Benson scratched at his face over his black half-mask, Polly shook her head, Michael reached into his pocket. 

“Michael!” Polly snapped, and her son tossed an unconcerned shrug at her. 

“Sorry, mum,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. She would handle him, too. Him and Tommy both. Once this was all over with. He handed the small bottle to Tessa, who uncorked it. Benson caught Polly’s eyes, flicking his quickly to Tessa and then out the bay doors, past which Polly could only see a faint glow, like the glow around electric streetlights, the plane was droning. Polly shook her head to answer him, and Tessa tapped a bump onto a long nail, Polly tossed Michael a withering glare that very directly translated to _we’ll talk later._ Tessa sniffed hard a few times, rubbed her nose with her left hand, shook her head, and looked down at her arm with an expression of vague curiosity. 

“Dark blood. Didn’t hit an artery,” she said, mostly to herself, Polly and Michael exchanged a glance, Michael gave his mother the very faintest grin and mouthed, “ _Good shot,”_ Polly shook her head at him in furious accusation. “Bullet’s shattered, though,” Tessa continued, as if diagnosing a complete stranger, “I doubt we’ll be able to get it out ourselves.” 

Still, no one spoke, avoiding her eyes, all of them pulled up short, at an absolute loss. Polly squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, allowing herself a second of weakness, _Family business,_ she thought to herself. _Same as bloody usual._ She released a tight sigh. A sudden, violent cracking noise like hailstorms on tin roofs, magnified ten times, a hundred, shook across the sky over their heads past the vaulted rafters of the ceiling over their heads, _pappappappappap,_ Polly wished it was the thunder. 

“What was that?” Michael muttered, and Benson’s face was tilted up at peer through the empty windows across the hangar, his jaw clenching. 

“Bristol,” he said, shortly, “Lewis gun.” Polly wondered if he could identify the aircraft simply by the noise of the weapon it shot, wondered if his soldier’s sixth sense could tell her somehow whether all her nephews were all still alive. 

“Arthur and John must be alright, then,” Polly muttered, following Benson’s line of sight. Michael let out a breath she wasn’t sure he had known he was holding, his strong chin tense and eyes jumping around the empty room, fingering a little silver pistol, _who on earth had given her son a gun?_

“What about Tommy?” Tessa asked, her voice shattering the quiet like one of the raining bullets, and Polly met her eyes, her lips pressed together. Tessa’s blown eyes went wider. 

“Polly,” she said, slowly, “where is he?” and Polly said, 

“He’s on the lawn,” in the voice of a woman who had crawled out of a grave to deliver her news. Tessa blinked, all long lashes and confused, parted lips. The only way for this to hurt her worse than it already had, Polly thought, was for her to feel it twice. Polly’s breath shuddered. She blinked quickly, her eyes were burning, the panic was swelling from a drop, to a wash, to a flood, Tessa was staring at her like she was the only lifeboat left on the Titanic. 

“Is he alright?” she whispered, like she would have taken anything, believed anyone, as long they told her what she so desperately wanted to hear. Polly let her eyes close, let the terror recede, like the waves on a beach. 

“He’s alive,” she said, Benson met Michael’s eyes, both wearing the same grimly dubious expression, but Tessa nodded, looking like the motion made her dizzy. 

“Okay,” she said, her voice still barely audible. She handed Michael the cocaine back, and rose to her unsteady feet, hand pressed to her shoulder. Her gaze flickered from Polly’s face, to Michael’s, to Benson’s, all of whom were watching her anxiously, waiting for the explosion, perhaps, but it didn’t ever come. She just pressed her lips together and stared back at them, too many expressions fleeting across her face for Polly to discern even one. 

“What?” she barked, Benson raised his hands in surrender and stood as well, following her lead. She swayed slightly on her feet, but stepped back from his attempt to offer her his arm. “I thought you said we needed to move?” she told them, pointedly, and then began to walk away. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo want my Tumblr? here it be: https://3xc3lsior.tumblr.com  
> I made a Pinterest moodboard for the first story and I'm working on the others, I'll post them as I finish them, but here's the link to Preying if you'd like: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/preying/ 
> 
> don't make fun of my fucking username okay I was like 13 and I used that email bc I didn't want to get a bunch of notifications, you know how it is lmao


	24. Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're damned after all!  
> Through fortune and fame we fall  
> And if you can stay, then I'll show you the way  
> To return from the ashes you call
> 
> And when we go, don't blame us  
> We'll let the fires just bathe us  
> You made us oh so famous  
> We'll never let you go
> 
> And when you go, don't return to me, my love
> 
> Mama, we're all gonna die  
> Mama, we're all full of lies  
> Mama, we all go to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, in the midst of all this chaos, the next chapters are almost... kind of... fun? and then they get very not fun again very quickly lmao SORRY

9:011pm 

  
  
  


Tessa did not notice that Lucy was still in the room when she slammed the door, spun, and pressed her forehead against the dark wood. Once the shock had worn off, Lucy could see, from her limited vantage point, crouched behind the sturdy desk, Tessa’s shoulders shaking, her breath coming in deep gasps. Once Lucy realized that no matter who was in the room with her, they were not likely on her side, she fumbled frantically with what she ought to do, and decided very quickly that she would stay hidden and completely silent until the other woman had left, because the possibility of Tessa discovering her was hardly any more appealing than meeting that awful, terrifying German again. With a very odd and deeply uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, Lucy realized that Tessa was sobbing, quietly, her head dropped against the door, facing away from her. Lucy did not enjoy the scene as much as she thought she would, perhaps because of that same wriggling guilt, that she was unintentionally witnessing such pain without Tessa’s knowledge, or indeed, consent. It felt personally invasive, and Lucy had never been very good at mitigating other people’s emotion to begin with. She preferred to keep things far away, out of arm’s reach. She tried to control her breathing, inhaling slowly through her nose. Tessa’s cries were mostly silent but all the more visceral for it, like her pain was too enormous to be compressed into a noise. Lucy peeked over the gleaming tabletop, the single low bulb hanging in the room looking extremely dim compared to the glow coming through the windows, throwing flickering orange light across the dark objects and corners of the room, everything flat and black and shadowed or caught, briefly illuminated, by the distant, shimmering flames devouring the buildings flanking the hangar. Lucy had heard the men yelling outside the window as they had set the fires, but why Tommy would want to start fires on his own property Lucy had no idea. She also couldn’t have cared less. All she wanted was a chance to escape, cursing herself for spending the last, well, she didn’t even know how long, crying, herself. The night did not appear to be going well for anyone. She let out an involuntary breath. As soon as Tessa’s tears had begun, they ceased, and Lucy’s anxious chest froze. Lucy heard the distinctive sound of a gun cocking, and her body tensed like a rabbit caught in the brush. 

“You have three seconds to stand,” Tessa said, and Lucy had doubted, ever since discovering it during her interrogation, whether or not Tessa had really killed Jack. Whether rich-girl, American beauty, Tessa Reilly, had really shot a man in cruel, cold blood. Now, she did not. Lucy thought of the German man on Primrose Hill, she thought of all the blood. And she felt, like a knife in her uneasy stomach, a sudden flash of connection to the girl across from her, a sense of sameness, unbidden and strange, and she stood. 

  
  


9:06pm

  
  


Tessa was clinging to her sanity, in every manner of speaking. Her gun was in her hand. She knew, at least, that her gun was in her hand. Things were slipping and dripping down her vision, there was a dark line of a forest, it looked like a forest, and a campfire, but no, the trees were too small, the fire too huge, too hot, too bright-, 

She realized distantly that she might have been screaming so loud it was tearing through her throat, everything was spinning, spinning, like it was going down a drain, she had gone deaf, she thought, 

And she spun silently too, a leaf caught in the rainwater on the cobblestones. 

  
  


December 4, 1914 

“Tessa, darling, come here,” her mother’s musical voice called, in a familiar strain. Tessa knew to smile before she had even turned, giving gentle apologies to the group of bankers she had been speaking to. Her mother was wearing a daring black dress, which seemed to be made of more glittering jewels than actual material. She was smoking the end of a long cigarette, taking gentle puffs. Tessa approached smoothly, keeping her steps even, like her mother had taught her. _Spine straight. Hips loose. Poor posture means bad pussy,_ her mother had said, sagely, throwing her daughter a sharp grin. Tessa had laughed. 

“Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Miss Tessa Juliette, my most prized possession,” Amelia said, in almost a purr. She always introduced Tessa like that. 

“She is your miniature, Amy,” a portly man with a tophat said, and Tessa hid a smirk at the face her mother tossed her. Amelia did _not_ go by Amy. “How old are you now, love?” He addressed Tessa, with too much of a leer. Much too much. She smiled, exposing her newly straightened teeth. An invention from- god knew where her mother had picked it up, truthfully. They had just stepped off the boat from France two days ago, for Christ’s sake. It could’ve been anywhere.

“Fourteen,” she replied, and the man seemed to take himself back. 

“W-well, I’m sure you will grow into a woman quite as enchanting as your mother,” his voice stuttered slightly at first, but quickly recovered. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, Amelia curtsied slightly. Tessa had never asked her where she had learned to curtsy. Amelia’s parents had raised her in a shack with one room. 

“Go play,” Amelia said to her, in a low tone, with a very swift wink over her shoulder. Tessa grinned widely and stepped seamlessly back into the hotel lobby where the afterparty for the film’s release was taking place. She wove in-between the guests, looking them up and down, searching for finery. A stopwatch here, a tinkling bracelet there. She wasn’t really all that good, it was just that easy, like pulling fruit off a low-hanging, privileged branch. 

Two hours later, she knocked on her mother’s door, attached to hers in the suite. Amelia had let Tessa stay in her own rooms in hotels when she was eight. “What, we can afford it. Why not?” she had shrugged to a blustery Leonard when he found out, but Tessa agreed with her mother. She agreed with her mother on mostly everything, actually. Mostly everything. 

Amelia sighed as she pulled off her heavy black earrings, setting them down with a rather impressive _click_ onto the bathroom counter. 

“So,” she called over her shoulder, to Tessa, who was reading a book in her mother’s king bed, legs crossed. Women were strictly not allowed to spend the night at this hotel without a male head of the family present, they were told, upon entering. Amelia had smiled. The man at the check-in counter had finally looked up. “ _Amelia Snow?”_ He had gasped, and that was that. Tessa wasn’t sure if _Snow_ was a stage moniker or her mother’s actual maiden name. 

“Did you find anything good?” 

“I did,” Tessa said, eagerly closing her book, as if she had been waiting to be asked. “I found _diamonds.”_

Amelia chuckled, now unbuckling her heels. She did not approve of calling for maids in hotels. She said she wanted to be able to know her wait staff as people, so that they did not feel like commodities being passed about. 

“Alright,” she said, “Hide it, and I’ll let them know in the morning.” 

Tessa nodded, slipping the heavy length of glittering stone from her pocket, and stowing it quickly under one of the many pillows. In the morning, Tessa watched over her mother’s shoulder as she wrote in precise, elegant script, 

_Complements of Amelia Snow to whoever cleans this room._

_P.s I won’t tell if you don’t._

  
  
  


1924, 9:11pm

  
  
  


“Lucy.” Tessa said, her expression now incredibly blank, ash and dark makeup streaked under her shimmering eyes. She did not lower the gun. “Of fucking course.”

“You look like shit,” Lucy said, unable to stop the twist of her lips, unable to help but let some of the fear escape. Tessa looked like she wouldn’t be able to threaten a babe, at the moment, despite the authority in her tone. Tessa blinked, twice, then flicked her eyebrows in a gesture of acknowledgement. There was a strip of red cloth tied around her right upper arm that was darkened with blood that trailed down to her wrist in little red rivlets like exposed veins. The elegant velvet evening gown was dirtied and brushed with soot, as was she, her long hair pulled down and falling around her like a thumbling shroud. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Tessa asked, and her voice was steady but the arm holding the gun was not. Lucy’s brow furrowed. 

“Tommy locked me in, I think. Are you dying?” She jerked her head at Tessa’s arm, and Tessa looked down at it with an expression of slight surprise. 

“I keep forgetting about that,” _Crazy bitch,_ Lucy thought, “And Tommy wouldn’t. He said he let you go,” she said, but there was a note of something in her voice, something almost desperate, and Lucy realized suddenly that with a few carefully chosen words, she could convince Tessa that Tommy had locked her and left her, knowingly in the direct path of danger, to make her wiggle and squirm, as punishment for killing his sister. What good were words, really, to Tommy Shelby? Vague threats get you whispered promises. He was a man of action, and he had left her to burn. It was a bit like putting something out of its misery, she told herself, and what was her other option, to _lie_ for her? To preserve her feelings? What would she gain from that? Lucy paused. She pursed her lips.  
“Well, the door was locked. Who shot you?” she asked, and even though that had meant to walk the line between the two paths, a duck, a flinch, Tessa was the one who jerked back, like Lucy had said it anyway. She dropped the gun and clutched her arm with it still in her hand, closing her eyes and shaking her head, and she whispered, “Fuck.” 

Lucy’s mouth opened slightly in shock. “ _Tommy shot you?”_ she whispered, then, “Is that why you were crying?” 

“Stop asking me questions, would you?” Tessa snapped, and Lucy recognized something with an odd rush of amusement, 

“Hold on a minute- are you blown right now?” Lucy asked, a breathless laugh escaping her. Tessa rolled her eyes in a practiced, elegant motion. 

“Tommy wants you dead, apparently, so I could just finish you off,” she retorted, flippantly, her tone missing an edge. Lucy shrugged. 

“Well, if you’re going to, would you get on with it then, please, as otherwise I’d quite like to get out of here,” she said, and Tessa observed her. The seconds ticked past. There were tear tracks drying on Tessa’s cheeks, shining in the low light, little streams of fire. 

“I was crying because I thought he was dead,” she said, softly, and Lucy started. 

“ _Dead?_ What the fuck’s been going on out there-,” she asked, spinning to look back out at the windows of the office, the tarnished glass rippling the flames still creeping higher, closer. 

“Tommy blew the stage out back,” Tessa said, shortly, her face very white in the reflection on the window. Her words were even, but felt off, as if she was repeating something she had been told. “There’s a- fucking plane in the sky,” she said, waving her left hand slightly to demonstrate, which made her wince, flashing white teeth. 

“What _plane?_ Whose _plane?”_

“Our plane, our fighter plane,” Tessa said, shortly, as if this was obvious. Lucy’s eyes widened, her words stalling momentarily, unable to even form more questions. 

“And Tommy is dead?” she managed, finally, after a few moments of tense eye contact. 

“No,” Tessa said. “I said I thought he was.” 

Lucy gave up completely. “Can I get out of here, then? Now?” she asked, rather sharply, and Tessa tilted her head slightly, staring at her, passing her judgement on her. “You broke my tooth,” Lucy reminded her, pulling up her gum to demonstrate. A front tooth and everything. If she ever escaped this godforsaken building, she was never going to land another attractive sweetheart again. Tessa blinked. 

“Come on, then,” she said, and gestured to the door with the blown handle. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://3xc3lsior.tumblr.com


	25. Beat the Devil's Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have forsaken all the love you've taken  
> Sleepin' on a razor, there's nowhere left to fall  
> Your body's aching, every bone is breakin'  
> Nothin' seems to shake it, it just keeps holdin' on
> 
> Your soul is able, death is all you cradle  
> Sleepin' on the nails, there's nowhere left to fall  
> You have admired, what every man desires  
> Everyone is king when there's no one left to pawn
> 
> There is no peace here, war is never cheap, dear  
> Love will never meet here, it just gets sold for parts  
> You cannot fight it, all the world denies it  
> Open up your eyelids, let your demons run
> 
> I thread the needle through, you beat the devil's tattoo  
> I thread the needle through, you beat the devil's tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter include mentions of animal cruelty and explicit violence. As always, you're welcome to skip it, and keep yourself safe. Love to you, babies.

1906

  
  


Arthur folded his legs underneath him, crouching down to sit next to Tommy, whose own legs were dangling off the edge of the canal, the water as grey and unmoving as the sky. A factory billowed black coal smoke into the air in the distance. Tommy was rubbing his fingers together distractedly, red and cut like he had been playing with knives again. Arthur didn’t speak, just waited for Tommy, to see if he wanted to talk. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. That’s just how Tommy was. A forge billowed behind them. 

“Look,” Arthur’s younger brother said, tossing his cap to Arthur’s lap, landing on his crossed legs. 

“Yeah, it’s an ‘at, Tom,” Arthur said, puzzled, and the corner of Tommy’s lip twitched. 

“Look at the brim,” he said, and Arthur turned it over, flipping it in his hand, and as he did so, something sharp caught suddenly against his finger. 

“Ouch- shit- fuckin’ _hell-,”_ he swore, nearly dropping the cap, but Tommy’s hand shot out to catch it before it fell down into the murky water. Red blood began to seep from Arthur’s ring finger. 

“Careful,” Tommy said, mildly, and of course the cap hadn’t cut _him_ when he caught it, “took me a good hour to get the little bastards on.” 

“Could’ve given a bloke some bloody warning,” Arthur grumbled. “What is it?” He asked, cautiously reaching for the cap back, wiping the blood on his finger idly into the dirt. “Knife, or...?” 

“Blades,” Tommy said, inspecting his own handiwork as he passed it over, the silver glinting off his icy eyes, “Razor blades. Easy to carry, hard to spot.” 

He folded the hat backwards, exposing the seam, and a blade was indeed sewn into the brim, peeking out innocently like a spring tulip from the dirt. Arthur’s finger throbbed. He nodded appraisingly. 

“Nice, Tom. Better not let Pol see, though,” Arthur said, and he caught the slight roll of Tommy’s eyes. He had stopped being afraid of their aunt’s anger longer ago than Arthur could even remember, before Arthur and John had begun pretending they felt the same. “She’d not approve.” 

“Disapprove,” Tommy corrected, because he was a little twat. He spun the hat around on his bloody fist. 

“Whatever,” Arthur grunted. “She’ll have your cock on a pike. Just keep it outta sight.” 

Tommy shrugged nonchalantly, like he couldn’t have cared less if their aunt wanted to give his neutering a go, like he would challenge anyone to try, the dull glint flashing as the brim went in circles, around and around. Tommy had an oddly intense air, like a coiled snake, that typically made people give him a good bit of berth. And if they didn’t, they learned to. Arthur’s eyes watched the movement of the cap, narrowing slightly as he prepared himself to swallow his pride and ask. He was no good with a needle and thread. 

“Make me one?” he asked, brusquely, and Tommy’s gaze turned to him for the first time, his eyes glowing brightly against the gloom, the brightest color for a thousand yards, every year, he looked harder, every year he looked sharper. 

“Hmm?” He said, which is what he did when Arthur interrupted his thoughts. 

“Will you make me one o’ them?” Arthur asked, nodding down at the cap. Tommy stopped it spinning and observed it curiously like it was a strange animal he had never seen before. 

“Keep it,” he said, tossing it to Arthur, who caught it gently. Tommy pulled out his cigarettes and pulled up his knees, leaning back on his elbow as he opened his case, which Arthur noticed had gone from leather to tin since the last time he had seen it. Franklin Jennings had had a tin case just like that, the other day in the pub, but Arthur somehow doubted he had it anymore. 

“You sure?” Arthur asked, and Tommy’s eyes flickered down to the vibrant red slices across his fingers, and he shrugged again, striking a match.

“I can make more.” 

“Might want to make some fuckin’ gloves,” Arthur said, admiring his new weapon. “Cause John’ll be wanting one, too.” 

Tommy chuckled quietly. 

“Bring me the razors, then, eh?” he said, closing his eyes and blowing out grey, just like the smokestacks on the gritty horizon behind him. 

  
  


9:06pm 

There was dirt, everywhere. In his mouth, in his nose, suffocating him. He was in a tunnel, he thought. He had died in that tunnel. He had died before that. He was dead again. 

  
  


November 25, 1914 

  
  


The Garrison glowed with a modestly dull sort of light and the din of boisterous voices. It was significantly more crowded than Tommy had wanted, but he was already fucking there, wasn’t he, so he might as well find his brothers, might as well have a drink. He thought about getting some girl, too, but decided it wasn’t even worth the trouble. The thrill had worn off long ago, after all, and disappointingly quickly, too. At least whisky still burned the same. He pushed open the set of double doors, listening for his brothers, blinking in the lamplight. There was a piano set in the corner, but no one sat at it. Tommy had told them no, because the boy who had used to sing and play had gotten blown in half on a ship, fighting for his country, and there should be honor in his death. And they had listened to him. He slid into his spot at the counter, the one he had been sitting in since he was sixteen. He thought Harry probably reserved it for him, that, or it was just known that it was to remain empty. The barkeep looked up. He didn’t smile, but Tommy didn’t want him to. They were always twitchy, nervous smiles that put Tommy’s own teeth on edge. 

“‘Ello, Mr. Shelby,” he said, ducking his head in a half-bow. “What’re you having?” he called, over his shoulder, even though he was already reaching for a whisky glass. 

“Have a guess, Harry,” Tommy said, tossing him a smirk, which seemed to make him ease up slightly. He slid Tommy his glass, waving off the payment. Tommy put it on the counter anyway. People needed to know he could afford to. He studied the color of the whisky, tried to imagine how it would taste before he took a swallow, tried not to think about how it looked like Gretta’s eyes in the sun. Harry shuffled back over to him. 

“Er- Tommy,” Harry said, a note in his tone that Tommy didn’t like, and the use of his name, which Tommy also didn’t like, resulted in Tommy not looking up from his glass. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, I mean, listen, I wouldn’t ask, normally, but there’s a-,” Tommy lifted his gaze and fixed it on Harry, and he faltered slightly, but continued on, “there’s a man outside causing a scene, and he’s scaring the customers, sir-,” 

“Causing a scene?” Tommy repeated slowly, lifting an eyebrow. “In Small Heath? The fuck’s he doing?” 

“I don’t know, sir, but there’s people raving, and- and shouting,” Harry said, twisting the cloth he was holding in his hands. “It’s bad for business, Mr. Shelby.”

“You ready to owe me a favor, Harry?” Tommy asked, quietly. It was better to be said. Harry swallowed, and then nodded. Tommy tossed back his drink, let it simmer in his chest like embers. 

“Don’t let anybody take me fucking chair,” he said, firmly, pointing at it, and he turned to walk out of the pub. 

  
  
  
  
  


9:06pm 

  
  


It was a different world in the darkness. Tighter, and more muted. He thought he could remember colors, bright bursts of them, but he wasn’t sure. He could probably die here, in the earth. Maybe he had already. (He thought he had already). 

  
  


November 25, 1914 

  
  


It was fucking cold outside, and drizzling. Tommy needed a new coat. The rain splattered off of cobblestone and hissed off of tin, hushing other noises but one, and Tommy followed it, using mostly memory to navigate the dark street. He pulled to a stop at the end of Garrison Lane, watching. 

A man was beating a scraggly paint horse with a whip that was whistling through the air and cracking off the stone, the lashes coming down like the sting of the rain, the horse’s petrified noises echoing off of the close, grey tenement halls. Tommy had assumed it was a paint horse, anyway, until he drew closer, his heart clenching, and realized that the horse itself was brown, but covered in white lather from its exertion. The heavy cart behind it was loaded with coal, a mound of it, blacker than the night sky, too much for one animal to ever be expected to haul. The horse’s knees were trembling, knocking together like Finn’s had when he had learned to walk, barely managing to stand upright. There were a few people who had halted, watching, looking uneasy. The whip fell. A mother covered her child’s eyes with her hand, dipped her hat to cover her face from the rain, and turned away. The man dropped the whip again with a guttural shout that the horse matched, skittering away, its hooves slipping and clopping on the wet pavement-,

“Oi!” Tommy called out, stalking forward, his hands already clenched into fists. The man turned, swaying a bit, fixing his beady eyes on Tommy. He had a heavy mustache and a wide face, was a good head taller than Tommy was, and probably twice as wide. He twitched the whip in his hand. Something was coursing through Tommy like cocaine, purer, brighter, burning white and searing hot. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” The man drawled, turning, wobbling slightly. Tommy stepped closer, the huddled people drew a collective breath. 

“Get the fuck away from the horse,” Tommy said, rage bubbling like venom, like cold rain on hot stone, sizzling, 

“Who the fuck are you?” the man spat, leering. His accent was southern, and Tommy smirked humorlessly. 

“Get away. From the fucking. Horse,” he said, evenly. “You’ve three seconds.” 

The man looked at him, and then spit, and then grinned, and then laughed. Tommy blinked. His heart was thrumming inside his chest, the horse fell to the ground behind the drunken man with a pitiful tremble, Tommy took off his cap. The time was up, and there was the siren, blaring in Tommy’s head, waking him waking him waking him up. He was dizzy with it. 

“Or _what?”_ the man asked, and Tommy shrugged. The horse took a broken, rattling breath, it sounded like Gretta, it sounded like-, 

9:06pm 

She was calling his name. 

  
  


1914 

  
  


“I’ll kill you,” Tommy said, the man hooted, others were baking away but the man was moving forward slowly, the horse’s blood was dripping off the whip it had been beaten with, the animal's side wasn’t rising, the rain was slipping into Tommy’s exposed hair and tickling ice down his collar. And he was going going going numb, flipping like a coin landed tails, and then he was moving forward. He had already broken the man’s knee before he got a thick fist to the face. Anything breaks, if you step on it hard enough, Tommy had felt it crack under his shoe like wood, but now the man was pummeling him, his blows sending Tommy reeling, stars exploding behind his eyes, lights washing out- his vision came back a moment later as he hit the solid, frozen ground, soaked with rain, eye to eye with a dead horse, the blood running in dark rivlets into the rainwater, the cobblestones and coal dust grimy against Tommy’s cheek, the horse’s eyes glazed over. He kicked out, colliding with something hard, maybe a shin, stumbling to his feet. The man was muttering, cursing, clutching his leg. He toppled over, landing on his palms in the street. Tommy walked over to him, his shoes crunching softly against the gravel, crouching down, wiping the coppery blood from his mouth with the back of his wet hand as he did, mixing with the rain on his skin. 

“My name is Thomas Shelby,” he said, quietly. 

“Dirty fuckin’ pikey,” the man spat, but Tommy could see the tremor, see the terror in his face as he looked down at him, he felt it flood him with a sickening rush, his heel collided with the man’s jaw and the man spat out a tooth with his next words, splattering red drops that looked black in the night, on the ground, across Tommy’s knuckles, “All over some useless fuckin’ beast-,” 

The horse’s blank eyes reflected the light spilling onto the street from the dusty windows, Tommy made himself look, made himself choose, realized he didn’t have a choice. He folded his cap. The razors glinted like little fallen stars, sliced into the man’s eyes like jelly, _he screams like his horse_ , Tommy thought- 

“What’re you looking at?” he asked, coldy, cruelly, blood dripping onto his hands, holding the man up by his dirty shirt lapels, the man garbled and screamed and clawed at his face and Tommy stood, shaking violently, flooded and open and swimming in it, drowning in it, he picked up the heavy, bloody whip. 

  
  


9:06pm 

  
  


There was light, faint and glowing. He was breathing, but it was painful, like inhaling glass, there was dirt and earth, smelling like mud and cold, it was getting heavier, it felt like it was getting heavier, pressing on him, like the world was a snake constricting him, he kicked and clawed and dug, pushed the weight away with his hands- 

  
  
  


1914

  
  
  


Tommy walked slowly back to the Garrison, his hands jammed to fists inside his pockets. They were concerningly still. He had thought that they would tremble. He didn’t remember dropping the whip or walking away. He didn’t remember if he had checked to see if the man was still alive. He thought he should care. It was odd, having so much in his mind that he didn’t know what to do with. It was odd that he couldn’t feel his feet hitting the ground, couldn’t feel the pain he had expected. _It was odd_ , he told himself, but really, it was freeing. He just didn't know that yet. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Harry said when Tommy entered, his cloth slipping between his fingers onto the counter, for a moment, Tommy thought he saw it splattered with-, 

But that was his hands, red staining over pale skin, “Get me a whisky, Harry,” Tommy said, and was momentarily, bizarrely pleased that no one had sat in his chair while he was gone. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Harry said again, aghast, “you’re covered in-,” 

And then Tommy realized everyone in the room had gone silent and was staring at him, mouths open, even with drinks halfway raised, in some cases, Tommy slid easily onto the stool, meeting eyes, wondering what expression was on his own face, wondering if there even was one. He couldn’t _feel_ it, he couldn’t feel anything. 

“You’re covered in _blood,”_ Harry finished, and he was, wasn’t he. His hand shook. No one spoke. “I only wanted you to move him along-,” the bartender was saying, quietly, Tommy was hearing the dying horse’s echoing scream in his ears, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as if that would help drown it out. 

“Whisky, Harry,” he repeated, firmly, he could see his own reflection in the bar, warped and splattered in red blood so dark in the night it was black- 

He downed the glass pushed hesitantly towards him. It went down his throat like water. _And now even the whisky doesn’t burn the same,_ he thought, 

“They’ll be coming for you, sir,” Harry said, and Tommy nodded. 

“I know.” 

“Did you kill him?” Harry asked, quietly. Others were listening, Tommy could feel them. The power and the rage surged through his veins. He felt nothing. He felt everything. 

“Don’t know,” he said. Then, after several moments of silence, of staring into his own eyes in the golden bar, “I hope not.” 

Harry’s eyes gentled slightly, and Tommy thought he had been about to reach out and put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, but Tommy pulled back, out of Harry’s reach. Gretta’s eyes, like whisky, dead like the horse’s. 

“I hope not,” Tommy continued, in a low, soft tone, clinking his father’s ring against the whisky glass. “I hope he lives a long, long life. And I hope he spends every moment in darkness, I hope he doesn't know whether or not he’s even fucking awake.” 

  
  


9:06pm 

  
  


Tommy pulled himself from the trench, from the tunnel, from the grave, again and again and again. 

  
  


1914

  
  


Harry froze, for a moment, the worrying motion of his hands wiping down another glass ceasing. 

“Know something about darkness, do you, Thomas?” he asked, and Tommy stared at him with those eerie eyes, and smiled. He pulled out his cigarettes, his blood-sticky fingers leaving red impressions on them. 

“I’m calling in my favor,” he said. Harry blinked furiously, his mouth opening. “You give me twenty pound, and you tell the coppers you never saw me tonight.” He pulled out a matchbook, struck the little red head until it glowed. “ _Or,_ I tell them you were trying to involve me in a murder-for-hire plot. Give them all the details, you know. Say you put me up to it. And how would _that_ look for business, Harry?” He asked, mockingly sincere, inhaling his smoke in a white trickle. He finished his whisky. “Your choice.” He may have just killed a man. He blinked, his handsome young face dappled in red like the freckles that had once been sprinkled across his nose. Harry went to the register. Tommy nodded when Harry passed him the pounds. 

“For me new coat,” he said, with the money held between red fingers. There was a terrifying sort of emptiness in his eyes Harry had never seen. “Pleasure doing business.” 

He was shrugging on his coat, and he was right, he did need a new one, 

“W-where are you going?” Harry spluttered, the coppers would be here any moment-, 

“Going to fight for my king, Harry,” Tommy said, and Harry couldn’t interpret his tone. Tommy pulled on his cap, red hands flashing, cigarette in his mouth. The brim was stained a deep crimson. “See you in hell,” he said, and that bit, Harry knew, had been facetious. He crossed his arms defensively. 

“What makes you think I’m going to hell, eh?” he asked, and Tommy smiled. He shook his head. The razorblades shone. 

“We’re already fuckin’ here,” he muttered, looking around at the pub, which offended Harry at first, but Tommy’s eyes were vague and distant like he wasn’t really seeing the bar but seeing past them, like he was seeing the body in the street. Then he blinked. 

“Have a good night, Harry,” Tommy said, casually, straightening his cuffs, and he strode from the bar. “Try not to get anyone else killed.”

The glass in Harry’s hands slipped and shattered. 

  
  
  


9:06pm 

  
  
  


There was a hum in the sky like a giant insect, popping sounds like massive balloons. Tommy rolled onto his back, panting, the night air slipping over his dry tongue, the sounds grew closer, there was fire, near him, so hot he could feel it radiating against his face, 

A fighter plane spun into his vision, against a cloudy sky, illuminated briefly by a bright shock of lightning, several shots rocketed off from the trees surrounding him, aimed at the plane, Tommy grabbed his radio, the plane rotated in midair, then lit up from the firing of a massive gun, _pappappappappappapping_ through the trees, Tommy heard resulting screams, he began to speak. 

  
  


9:06pm

  
  
  


“JOHN!! JOHN BOY! NINE O’CLOCK!” Arthur shouted, and John heaved against the bulk of the gun to turn it, struggling against the pressure of the wind, 

“I SEE ‘EM!” John shouted, through the scope, through the trees, and then gone again just as quickly, flashes of brown against black, little moving shapes darting past bigger, stationary ones, the shadows between the trees darkened by the glow of the fire. “FUCK!” John swore, they swooped low again and his stomach went with them, every second, he was scanning the ground, craning his neck back and around, swiveling the scope madly, _Tommy, where was Tommy-,_

The night whipped past them in a blur, he was staring down at the trench instead of into the trees like he should have been, Arthur had to dip to avoid an air pocket, _too low, they were too low,_ shots rang out over the tops of the trees and _pinged_ off the body of the plane, 

“PULL THE FUCK UP, ARTHUR!” John yelped, throwing his weight against the gun to turn it back, 

“NAH- WE KNOW WHERE THEY ARE! SHOOT, JOHN BOY, SHOOT!” Came Arthur’s command, John heard the oncoming bullets as he squeezed his eyes closed and blindly let loose into the trees, Arthur pulled up, the bullets faded, a familiar, rough voice in John’s radio at his chest, sitting in his tuxedo, crackled with dry static and what sounded like dirt and said, 

“You boys do know the gun can still fire at more than a fucking cockhair above the ground, yeah?” And Arthur and John screeched and howled into the dark night. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I could choose one song as the theme for this series it would be this one.  
> p.s sorry for the trauma. I love this chapter it is definitely a favorite of mine bc I just... I love Tommy so much you guys were right I could never kill him lmao


	26. Homemade Dynamite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple rebel top gun pilots  
> Flying with nowhere to be  
> Don't know you super well  
> But I think that you might be the same as me  
> Behave abnormally
> 
> Let's let things come out of the woodwork  
> I'll give you my best side, tell you all my best lies, yeah  
> Awesome, right?  
> So let's let things come out of the woodwork  
> I'll give you my best side, tell you all my best lines
> 
> Our rules, our dreams, we're blind  
> Blowing shit up with homemade dynamite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for sxrebonds. love you, baby <3

9:09pm 

  
  


Someone was speaking to her. 

“Tess,” the voice was saying, the _male_ voice, was saying. Michael, or Benson. She was proud of herself for narrowing it down so quickly. Brown hair, but that didn’t help. She squinted at the face, but everything was blurry, even right in front of her, everything was sounds and figures and shapes and impressions- 

“What?” she asked, annoyed at the voice, whoever it belonged to, couldn’t they see she had places to go, couldn’t they tell she had things to do, what _was_ it she had to do again? Where had she been going? It was dark and light and then dark again, windows, she thought, she had passed a window, a portal to hell, it was glowing bright outside, she was in a building, a building surrounded by flames, she was in a nightmare. 

“Are you… alright?” The voice asked, and then she remembered again, she was humming like an electric wire, her brain plugged up like a lightning rod, waiting for, waiting for, waiting for something, something wasn’t _right,_ where was she? _You have to find him,_ muttered a voice that sounded like her mother, and then another, _You have to run,_ it said, rich and dark like the shadows falling across her arm, so heavy she could feel them, she could see a single, crystal droplet of water toss itself off the ice, _the ice?_ She thought, then, _fire and ice, everywhere,_ and another voice was growing louder. 

“Tessa! Snap out of it!” It commanded, and who did it think it was, to order her around like that? Something was holding her back and she tried to fight it, 

“Wake up!” The voice was saying, she was saying, she was saying to herself, to her mother, she was fourteen again, finding her mother, choked to death on the hotel floor, drowning in her own vomit, “ _Wake up, mommy,”_ Tessa had said, even though she had always called her Amelia, or mother, and she wanted her now, suddenly- 

Something cracked across her face, she stumbled, her shoulder hit something hard and cold and upright, a wall welded from metal sheets, Pain lashed across her face again, burning like the flames past the walls. Her swimming eyes closed. 

“Fuck _off,”_ she snapped, 

“I don’t think she can hear me,” a panicked voice said, and yes, she very well could, thank you, and a smoother tone, Polly, Tessa remembered, responded, 

“Well, that’s why you shouldn’t have given her any _cocaine, Michael,”_ quite pointedly. _Michael,_ then. Michael was her problem. Michael was the one hurting her and getting in her way. She moved without questioning it, lashing the back of her hand across his face, she could hear the impact, hear the way it reverberated with the sharp smack of skin on skin, then she could see him, too, holding a hand to his cheek and swearing eloquently. The darkness was swaying, rolling, Tessa put her head back against the stable, immobile wall, _a lightning bolt,_ she thought, _that needs to be grounded._ There was something empty and awful and burning inside of her, like she had drank gasoline and swallowed a match. She took a breath of oxygen. _Burn, then. Burn me. Burn it all._

There was some sort of scuffling going on around her, she closed her eyes so that she couldn’t see it, raised voices, milling bodies, she couldn’t see it, she didn’t care. 

“ _Get him on,”_ the woman’s voice was saying, for a moment Tessa wanted to call out to her, to her mother, but it wasn’t her, she wasn’t there, there was a crinkling sound like paper, 

“I’m a bit busy at the fuckin’ moment-,” the crackly sound said, rocks tumbling off of each other down a ravine, 

“Right NOW!” The first voice said, commanded, not Michael, nor Benson, then static, that’s what it was, white noise, it was all white noise, and Tessa heard, 

“It’s me, Pol,” and Tessa thought about how everyone always talked about the light at the end of the tunnel that you saw when you died, but no one ever told you about the sound that pulled you back, the sound, the voice, “It’s me, I’m alright,” the voice said, her lungs heaved as they sucked in air, she had been holding her breath, when had she started to hold her breath? And then moments were flashing in front of her again like a film reel, her and Tommy standing on a stage, Tommy on one knee, a plane flying overhead, a fire breaking out, Tommy- 

“Tommy, you have to speak to Tessa, she’s having some sort of- some sort of attack-,” Polly was saying, shimmering radio static was interrupted by a vigorous clap of thunder. _A lightning strike._ There were other noises, muffled, but all Tessa could hear was the roll of the sky- 

“Tessa, it’s me. Tess? It’s alright, it’s alright, love,” said the clouds, no, said a voice in her ear, pressed to her ear, “Just listen to me, eh?” which was hard to do, because there was a sudden screech as the words were cut out, Tessa heard bullets flying overhead, then again as they echoed through the radio like a deadly refrain, the voice was back, 

“Tess, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” she said, but she forgot to press the button, there was a button she had to press, “Yes,” she whispered again, button down, sucking air through her nose. 

“Inhale for four seconds-,” he cut off, came crackling back to life, “exhale for five, try to get to the- fuck-,” before the radio went silent, again, she heard the horrible, awful, metallic _BANG,_ made all the more bonechilling because of the deafening quiet that followed it. Tessa was clutching the radio so hard she was worried she was warping the metal. 

“Tommy?” she could have screeched, she could have whispered, she couldn’t tell. The radio whined. 

“I’m here,” he said, like nothing had happened, she could hear his sharp breaths, “-try to get to the highest number you can,” he finished, she might have been crying, 

“Are you alright?” she asked, there was another _BANG BANG._

 _“_ There’s fucking- snipers- in the woods,” he said, and she got the impression he was moving very quickly. “And I’m finding ‘em.” 

“You’re _what,”_ Tessa gasped, appalled, her throat closed up again. “Fuck, Tommy, that’s really not fucking helping-,” 

"Forgive me for the inconvenience,” he bit back, sarcastically, sounding suddenly like Ada, she thought she could hear branches snapping under his feet, maybe that was more bullets, 

“If you’re sneaking up on people you should likely not be talking, right?” Tessa said, dropping her voice to a whisper she wasn’t even sure would carry to him, and Tommy’s muffled voice replied with something that sounded like a very flippant and breathless “No, probably not”. Tessa forced her chest to expand, the cavity truly feeling like a cavity inside her, like the fear was emptying her from the inside out. 

“Just don’t die,” she whispered, “Please, promise me you won’t die,” she begged, everything was quiet. 

“Stay out of trouble, Lolo,” he said, the sound waves suddenly completely clear, ringing like a bell, reverberating against her skull like the compression of the thunder, and she knew that he would tell her he loved her, and then the radio would squeak and then fall to silence, even before he did. 

  
  


December 1, 1914 

  
  
  


Tommy was quiet, square shoulders set, weaving through the crowd. He was usually quiet, these days. Every time he had come home from Greta’s bedside, he had spoken less and less, the shadows under his eyes deeper and deeper, like she was stealing his words from him with her death rattle, sucking them like air from lungs. John hated her a little bit for it, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault. 

“I’m going to join,” Tommy had said, head held low, between his hands, elbows on his knees, in a jail cell. 

“Alright,” John had told him, through the bars. 

“Don’t have a fuckin’ choice,” Tommy had muttered, like John had asked, staring ahead, at the wall. 

“‘S’alright, Tommy,” Arthur had said, “we’re coming with ya.” 

They hadn’t talked about it. It didn’t matter, they didn’t need to. John nodded. He thought Tommy would shout, refuse flat-out, maybe try to beat the idea out of their heads even from inside the cell, but he had turned on the bare cot to look at them, part of his face obscured in John’s view by a stark metal bar, hollowed eyes haunted. 

“Alright,” was all he said, instead. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone. 

Now, as they walked silently across the platform, shoulder-to-shoulder, his eyes were blank and guarded. Travellers parted before them just like they had back home, out of respect, now, instead of fear. Hats were tipped, words of thanks were muttered in their directions. Their uniforms gleamed, brand new. Tommy’s face did not change. 

“Smile, bruva,” Arthur said, elbowing him. Something cold flashed across Tommy’s expression, but then it was gone, and he just blinked. 

“Why should I?” he muttered, and Arthur frowned as they pushed their way onto the train. 

“There’s why,” John muttered, “Tofts at twelve o’clock,” he said, jerking his chin to gesture in front of them, through the windows of the compartment they were passing. The first class, frosted windows, bar service kind, where the rich and powerful and important men sat, in-between sending off the rest of ‘em to go die in the dirt. But this compartment’s doors were open, as they passed, single file, swaggering slowly as they each drug their eyes over the occupants, Tommy last in line down the narrow passage. There had been a time when Tommy would have torn the blue collars to shreds for licking the boot, when Gretta’s beliefs had been his own, and he would have shattered that frosted glass with his fist and spat in the face of the copper who grabbed him for it. Now, his eyes trailed over the opulence like fingers, flashing with something again, and this time John recognized what with. Hunger. John’s eyes roamed over the beautiful woman in a luxurious fur coat, her auburn hair done in tight curls, who was speaking animated French to two working-class men, both of whom were wearing slack-jawed looks of starstruck admiration. John wondered how the fuck they had talked themselves into a room with her. Their tweed jackets looked almost amusingly proplike against the velvet seats, like a rusty bike next to an Aston. The last spot in the compartment was occupied as well, but John didn’t notice until he was almost passed, he whipped his head back around but he could only see Tommy behind him, looking in just as he and Arthur had. A girl had been sitting in the corner, all ivory lace and daintily crossed legs and hair like fire. 

“Did you see ‘er?” John asked, too loudly, over his shoulder, his voice tearing Tommy’s eyes away from the spot they were fixed on, and then they slid past. 

“That was a child, John,” he said, and John shrugged. Too young for Tommy, maybe. She had only looked a few years younger than he was, himself. 

“What ‘bout the other one?” he asked, and his brother shook his head. 

“Too old.” They kept walking, but John saw Tommy look back over his shoulder, and smirked. 

  
  
  


December 1, 1914 

  
  
  


Tessa looked up from her book because she had the distinct, itchy sort of feeling that someone was staring at her, like a shiver down her spine. Two someone’s, actually. The first man passed the compartment nearly knocking his elbows against the corridor, his face twitching and limbs loping. A younger man followed closely behind him, giving Tessa’s mother the same lingering glance as the first, the same glance most men gave her; if Amelia noticed, she did nothing to show it, chatting on with the two admirers who had approached her for her autograph. Both the passing men had blue eyes and were wearing army uniforms, soldiers, Tessa thought, being sent out. Their faces were arrogant and glowing, full of drive and ambition, but Tessa’s heart ached for them. Sam’s letters from the front had been reading like horror novels, recently. There was another, following them, Tessa hadn’t seen him at first, too focused on raising her eyebrows at the second man, who had been giving her a lingering, obvious look. She thought she heard them speaking in English, which surprised her, and she couldn’t place the accent, which surprised her more. The last man who passed looked different from the others, somehow. He looked _different,_ in a way Tessa could not have explained, and their stare locked for a particle of a moment and his eyes were a shockingly bright blue, bluer than the others, bluer than she thought she had ever seen in her life. His expression was cold and imperious, under his beige army cap, pulled low. And then he was gone, down the aisle, the flow of her mother’s perfect French and the chugging of the train as the wheels began to turn both snapping Tessa back to attention. But not before she wondered, briefly, whether that man would come back from where he was going with his blue eyes still intact, wondering whether he would come back at all. 

  
  
  
  


9:09pm

  
  
  


For a moment, Michael had thought that Tessa was doing quite well, all things considered. The sudden, spine-tingling laugh attack had thrown him a little, but it was over quickly enough, and then she was standing and walking and shouting at them all like usual, so they had followed her hesitantly. Which was a poor choice, really, because it became immediately obvious she didn’t know where she was going, and, almost as quickly, that she probably didn’t even know where she was. Then she looked down, at her arm, lower, to the other side, at the ring glittering on her finger. 

“Tess,” Michael said, stepping forward, she had gone very still, white breast heaving, dark eyelids closed. He could see blue veins under her pale skin even in the shadows, when the firelight caught on her. Michael glanced at the staging shop in front of him, through the windows of the massive hangar, crumbling and black and red. 

“What?” she snapped, which meant she could hear him, which he supposed was a good sign. 

“Are you… alright?” he asked, she had begun to tremble slightly. He moved in front of her, taking her shoulders in his hands, not knowing what the fuck to do. He shook her, shouted, glanced desperately at his mother, whose face was obscured in the darkness, but he could see her worried frown, and that was what worried _him,_

He slapped Tessa, he called to his mother, he hit her again. Tessa fought back, but as if she was dreaming, and didn’t know she had moved in real life, her backhand lashing across his face with a bitter sting. Her eyes opened, but barely, she was tipping in his arms. Something made a jarring, scratching sound, like the needle spinning the world had stuck. Benson’s radio crackled in his pocket, and the voice speaking from it had a lilting Brummie cadence, 

“Bloody fuckin’ eagles checkin’ in-,” it said, there was a splash of static- “waiting for ground response-,” Polly’s hand clapped to her mouth, she hiked her glistening silver dress and ran to Benson, hand out, Tessa backed up and put her head against the wall, like she wasn’t there, like none of them were there. Michael winced but turned as well, 

“John! Are you alright? Where’s Tommy?” his mother’s frantic voice was saying, in the background of John’s response, the plane’s propellers nearly overpowered his words, the engine droning, “John!”

“”E’s okay, Pol!” Another voice responded. Arthur. “Tommy’s alright!” Michael’s breathing hitched. Polly let out a nearly inaudible gasp and clapped her fingers over her lips, looking to the sky. She sucked in an uneven breath. 

“Get him on!” she said. Time felt odd to Michael, like every moment had been stretched out, glowing orange, melted glass. He could hear Tommy speaking, sounding as if they were inconveniencing him with their concern, the fucking toerag. Michael grinned rather wildly. Polly was handing Tessa the radio. Relief rushed over her pale face, her cheeks red from his blows, he watched it move through her body, he saw her sink against the wall, clutching the radio to her ear like she would fall off the edge of the earth without it. Polly collapsed into Michael’s arms, smoothing a hand over the back of his hair, her chest heaving. He felt too much, all at once, he didn’t know what to do with it all, terror and glee, running hot and cold through him. Tessa handed the radio silently back to Benson, who pocketed it with a frown, offering his hand to her, which she ignored. Polly turned him by his shoulder, speaking in a low voice, and Michael edged quickly around them, sinking down against the wall beside Tessa, whose knee was pulled up under her chin, her leg exposed by the high slit in her velvet gown. 

“I need to talk to you,” he said, in a low, quick voice, now wasn’t the time, but there wasn’t any time, Polly was huddled over the radio that Tessa had passed back to Benson, speaking with rapid words and anxious expressions. 

“Michael,” Tessa groaned, and he felt for her, he really did. “ _What?”_ she sighed, raising her head, blinking her eyes, it wasn’t the right time, he didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know why he felt it, didn’t know what to say to make her understand. She reached up to the diamond comb halfway holding her hair, and pulled it out, her waves looking like a river of dark fire, the darkness making the red almost black, the green of her dress almost black, everything was almost black. Michael cleared his throat, _fuck it,_ he thought, he dove in headfist,

“My mum,” he said, “she said that baby is going to be born with blue eyes.” 

Tessa’s lips parted, the light from the windows catching against them, her brow furrowing. 

“Michael, what are you-,” 

“She said it’s a girl,” Michael said, firmly. He needed to. “A girl with blue eyes.” 

Tessa’s face hardened, he was afraid she was going to hit him again, then she cracked, like plaster. 

“I just thought you should know,” he said, softly, and watched the expressions cross her face like cars on the street, and then she stood with swift poise. 

“Michael,” she snapped, looking down at him with an expression dripping poison, “Fuck. Off.” and then off she went, into the darkness, her heels clicking like the empty barrel of a gun. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also if u WANTED there will be a teaser for the next chapter on my Tumblr SO


	27. Hit and Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was brought up as a southern belle,   
> I grew into the queen of hell   
> You were just a little stowaway who stabbed her way to save herself 
> 
> They'll never see us coming, till they hit the floor   
> They just keep begging' for more, more 
> 
> First one up was a preacher's son  
> Last one down was an Englishman  
> I'm in bed with his bow tie on  
> All dressed up for a hit and run

9:17pm 

  
  


“Where are we going?” Lucy hissed, immediately, following at Tessa’s heels like an extremely distrusting but also extremely terrified hound. 

“Back to the others,” Tessa replied, shortly. She was so fucking gald she knew that. She was glad for knowing her own name, at this point, because other things were slipping, like objects shaking from a shelf during an earthquake. She remembered running, and the fire, and Tommy, _he shot you,_ Benson had said, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t-, 

“What _others_? Shouldn’t we be leaving? Is there a- I don’t know, a back exit, or something? Can you-,” Lucy had said, all before she had even made it out of the room behind Tessa. 

“Lucy, I _will_ shoot you,” Tessa interrupted her, and Lucy snorted behind her, and Tessa wanted to hit her again. The dark, wooden walls were remaining upright, at least, now, but the cracks were too clear, too precise, they stood out like they were straining, like they were about to shatter- 

“You don’t look like you could pull a hairtrigger and hit a mountain, love,” Lucy said, Tessa wondered if Lucy had always been quite so arrogant, and then Tessa realized that yes, she had, indeed. Tessa stopped walking even though she had only made it a few steps down the hallway, her arm was on fire, she almost looked down, she almost expected to see be coals burning into her shoulder, she forced herself to keep her eyes on Lucy, to keep them cold. 

“I don’t know how fucking dim you have to be for my stating this to be necessary, but I am the _only_ thing currently standing between you and a gang war, so perhaps rethink your tone when you speak to me,” Tessa recommended, her voice flat. Lucy’s scowl reached Tessa as she approached, her arms crossing. 

“Fine,” she retorted. “Then give me your gun.” 

“I am _not_ _giving you my gun,”_ Tessa snapped, if there was any way to have knocked Lucy out and managed to carry her, she would have done it, Tessa was flickering like the flames that were lightening the sky past the window at the end off the barren hall to a faded navy, despite the hour. “Do you even know how to shoot?” 

“Yes,” Lucy bit, her arms crossing further, clenching around her like a safety vest. Tessa was still holding her Beholla, and would sooner have lost the hand it was in than parted with it. “Gangsters pay better for women who can handle a weapon,” she said, with a satirical smirk. Tessa exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. 

“Isn’t that the truth,” she said, quietly. She regarded Lucy, holding her arm. Not because it hurt, particularly, but because she realized suddenly was meant to, to staunch the bleeding. It was horrifying how casually she had remembered, how detached she could be while pressing on the bullet wound. “Tommy said you weren’t a whore.” 

It wasn’t quite a question, but Lucy answered anyway, her dark, almond eyes narrowing. “We can call it whatever we want,” she said, eventually, shifting her small frame in a shrug. “Nice necklace, by the way,” she said, and Tessa’s lips twitched. She touched the diamond choker, the stones warmed by her skin.

“There are much worse things to be,” she muttered, and Lucy ticked her head slightly in agreement. They looked at each other for a moment, Tessa pressed her lips together. She bent down, it felt like it took forever, minutes, hours. She unsheathed her knife from her ankle, and stood, flipping it towards Lucy. 

“Here,” she said, and then, when she had, she turned, rubbing at the dark makeup streaked under her eyes. “Let’s go.” 

  
  
  


9:19pm 

  
  
  


They had no sooner reached the end of the hall before Lucy was tugging on Tessa’s dress again. Tessa snapped her head to the side to glare at her and make a very irritated “What?!” sort of face, but Lucy’s eyes were wide and frantic. 

“ _Did you hear that what was that,”_ she whispered in one breath, and Tessa was lowering her Beholla and bracing her arms against her body to get the leverage to cock it, damning herself for choosing a gun without an exposed hammer, she should have fucking known, there were voices at the end of the hall, scuffling footsteps. 

“I’ll put it this way,” Tessa said, quietly, “we will either be very glad or _very_ disappointed to see them.” Lucy’s lip shivered in a whimper, but she had the knife raised, the black blade flat in the light, not blueish like moon or starlight, but warm, like candlelight from under a door. The voices were nearing, footfalls thudding. 

“ _Get behind that wall,_ ” Tessa hissed to Lucy, whose wide eyes caught hers for a moment. 

“ _What are you going to do_?” she demanded, in an undertone, and Tessa couldn’t tell if the fear in her voice was for herself alone. 

“Whatever I have to. Stay down, _be quiet_.” Lucy glared at her for another moment, so tense she looked like she was poised to jump. Then she took two quick steps forward and to the side, behind the single wall across from the office that sectioned off the hallway, which was lettered with flyers and diagrams, hung haphazardly and slightly dusty. Tommy would, no doubt, remedy that within the first week. Thinking of Tommy made dizziness burst through her like a buzzing wave, the voices were nearing, it was as if her body knew before her mind, somehow, she was raising her gun, she had been worried she wouldn’t be able to, and then she already had, her stomach clenched nauseatingly, 

“Hello again, Ms. Reilly,” Markus von Stein called, dripping in pompous arrogance, the sound coming closer. Tessa struggled with herself for a moment, wondering if she should just start shooting, but she didn’t know who was with him, didn’t know how many there were, they would be able to see her in a moment- she dropped the gun behind her back, the smooth velvet and smooth metal under her fingers, the room was slipping-

His pointed features came into better focus through the dark as he approached, two men flanking him. _Do not tremble,_ Tessa was telling herself. Her fingertips were shaking, anyway, vibrating, really, the snow was- _do not fucking tremble,_ she commanded her hands, she breathed in through ribs that felt shattered- 

“Hello, Markus,” she heard her voice respond as if she had not been the one who had spoken the words. His strides were smooth and unhurried, gazing at the tight, dark walls to either side of him like he was taking a leisurely tour of an Italian marketplace. Tessa realized, with a feeling she could not have named, that she could kill him. That she was capable of it. Her hands stilled behind her back. She could feel only the gun. 

“Now _what_ is a nice girl like you,” Markus asked, a mocking frown on his thin face, heavy eyebrows pulled together and heavier accent pulled over his words, “doing all alone in a place like this?” 

Tessa sent a very passionate mental prayer that Lucy would not choose that moment to do something idiotically heroic and cliche and say something like “She’s not alone!” and jump out and get them both killed, before Tessa remembered that Lucy was not really the type. She would never have thought she would one day be grateful for it. Tessa couldn’t see Lucy’s expression without turning to look at her, and wasn’t stupid enough to do such a thing with Markus watching, but she could feel the weight of her fear like something creeping across the floor. 

“Nice girls don’t end up in places like this,” Tessa said, and Markus made a scrunched face. 

“Ah, yes. You English. _Such_ moral depravity.” 

“I’m American, actually. We’re much worse.” Tessa jerked her chin. “And what is it your platform runs on, again? Saint-like altruism, right?” Lucy snorted in unintentional amusement and then abruptly cut it off, glancing back over her shoulder in terror at Tessa, who did not meet her eyes. Markus bared his teeth like a dog, seemingly too concerned with his eager response to her rhetorical question to have heard. 

“Ascension,” he said, and a chill skittered across Tessa’s bare shoulders. The two faceless men behind him stood hidden in shadows, their features obscured, dark against the darker hall. “The restructuring of the order. The reclaiming of a birthright. Some are born to rule, you see.” 

Tessa took a step closer, even though she wanted to turn and run, she wanted to _run_. She could hear Lucy’s muffled breathing past the hand she had pressed to her face, and prayed that Markus could not. Thunder rumbled overhead, loud and angry, rolling over the sound of the Bristol. 

“Yes,” Tessa agreed. “We are.” 

His mouth spread into a smile like an oil slick across the ground. “I did not take you for a believer, Ms. Reilly,” he said, approvingly, she smiled cruelly back at him, but he did not see the thorns past the rose. _This is what having a cause does for you,_ Tessa thought, _makes you blind._ The thought sounded like someone else, it sounded like Tommy-, 

“My father told me your bloodline is pure and, as of yet, unsullied, although you seem committed to tarnishing it by mixing with the likes of these filthy… animals.” Markus sneered and his eyes slid to the side, eyeing the wall Lucy was pressed behind, her back to the wood, Tessa stared at him, her blood humming. _Kill him,_ the voice said, _put a bullet in his fucking brain,_ pain jolted suddenly down her arm, clenching her fingers around the .32 so suddenly she nearly pulled the trigger. Markus continued meanderingly, black shadows catching over his shoulders and the vague faces of the men behind him, “But, sadly, you are a woman. And it is, as they say, a man’s world.” 

“Hmm,” Tessa said, “Right,” she took a quick, quiet breath through tight lungs. _Exhale when you fire,_ Benson had said, _it’s about your breath, and balance,_ but Tessa’s heart was thudding in her ears, _Fuck balance,_ she thought, _fuck all of this,_ “Well, you can remind yourself of that when I send you to hell. Then it might be true.” 

Markus’ eyes narrowed. “ _What_ did you say?” he snapped, and then, “Take her,” in a clipped voice to the man on his right, who had blonde hair cut in a short military buzz. The brown of his shirt was nearly indiscernible in the low light, there were no lamps in the hallway to illuminate the scene, nothing but the flames through the windows, still growing, Tessa could see the black wood of the smaller factory’s walls, crisping to white as the blue-bottomed flames devoured them. Tessa met his eyes for a moment, she couldn’t tell what color they were, couldn’t tell how old he was, _just a nameless, faceless enemy, a monster, an animal,_ the voice told her, _to kill a monster takes a-_ she waited until he was close enough that he was moving to take hold of her before she pulled her gun from behind her back, her arm felt heavy, or maybe it was the pistol, she felt _heavy_ and _slow_ and she wasn’t moving fast enough, like she was in a dream- 

When she had met Thomas, her father had warned her that he was a predator. And he had been right, really, all along, _Filthy animals,_ the German man’s voice rang, and Tessa understood. 

The trigger pulled with an earsplitting _crack_ and her arm jerked back in its socket, her shoulder screaming, or maybe that was coming from the man, she fired again, twice, past the man’s body that fell to the floor with a _thud_ that was muffled in her ringing ears. Tessa threw herself behind the wall opposite Lucy as more shots rang out, she didn’t know if she had hit either of the remaining men before she had ducked for cover, another shot landed and the bullet sank into the floor, closer, she couldn’t see the attacker past the wooden wall blocking her vision, but she could hear the bullets coming from behind it, the noise and the metal ricocheting off the close hallway, she shot blindly at the corner of the wall, papers and posters and pamphlets rustling in the dim light from the breeze of the passing bullet, the responding fire _whizzed_ into the wall past Tessa’s shoulder, she dropped instinctively, and the noise suddenly stopped like the record had been lifted from the player. 

Lucy stood behind the second guard, the one who had remained in shadow until now, her smooth skin brightened by a red blush high on her cheeks, her slender arm trembling as she stood behind Markus’ man and held Tessa’s knife to his throat. 

  
  
  


9:17pm 

  
  
  


“Fucking snipers are-,” There was a burst of static that cut John’s words short, his voice coming back in reverberating waves, “-two o’clock, Arthur, there’s a-,” 

Polly was clutching the radio in white-knucked hands, her dark painted fingernails and golden rings glinting like the panicked gleam in her eyes, like the metal box in her grip. She was listening with all her might, Michael could tell, but the hangar was still quiet, too quiet, Benson was gesturing for his radio back with a hand that was also holding an army-issue Webley, 

“Mum, come on, we have to go,” Michael was saying, Polly shook her head, her short curls tousled from the explosion, “We have to go, mum, we’re not safe-,” 

But she would not release the radio, Benson gave up and looked out over their heads, his contemplative face drawn. 

“Where’s Tessa?” he snapped, and Michael turned, 

“I don’t fucking- she was here a moment ago-,” he said, but Tessa’s spot on the wall very clearly unoccupied, he had thought she was just around the corner, he had thought she wanted to be left alone-

“Michael! Where is she _now_ ?” Benson asked, looking disappointed and angry, like Michael was being troublesome, like Tessa was _his_ responsibility, 

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who knows that?” Michael bit back, and Polly stepped between them, palms and voice raised, 

“Boys!” She shouted, and Benson looked equally affronted and abashed at being addressed in such a way, his eyes downcast. Michael crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, because it felt odd while holding his Derringer. The radio crackled in the brief silence, Michael heard the plane dipping over the ceiling, the hum of the engine and the whine of the propellers intermingled with occasional machine gun fire. Michael realized his mum was holding a gun, too, her Smith and Wesson that had belonged to her brother. 

There was an indistinguishable jumble of words over the radio, and then a flurry of gunfire, but that was from the trees flanking the buildings, 

“We got more ‘o ‘em, John, look to starboard-,” Arthur’s voice ordered, John’s disgruntled, 

“Need to fuckin’ reload! Give me a-” there was a loud series of _bangs_ that Michael could hear through the broken windows, and then several more, much louder, much closer, from inside the hangar. The three of them froze, Polly with the radio lifted halfway to listen to her nephews, Benson already pointing his revolver at the direction that the shots had come from, across the massive, empty floor scattered with tables, towards the front of the building. Benson began to stride foreward, his gun held tightly aloft in precise form. Polly followed with the radio and Wesson in either hand, and Michael thought blankly about his luck to belong to a family that ran _towards_ the sound of bullets, but trailed his mother, his palms slippery with sweat, his pulse beating a staccato rhythm in his chest, feeling so alive he thought they would have to shoot his head clean off to put him down. 

  
  


9:22pm

  
  


“Lower your weapon,” Tessa said, crouched on her knees, hoping the man couldn’t see the Beholla shaking in her one-handed grip, her arm was _aching,_ it was _burning,_

The man scoffed, shook his head, there was a spray of darker blood across his dark shirt, but Tessa didn’t think it was his. He spat something in harsh, rapid-fire German. He kept his gun lifted, the barrel glinting in front of Tessa’s face until she was nearly cross-eyed, there were voices coming down the end of the hallway, lured by the incredible noise they had caused, 

“Lucy, slit his throat,” Tessa commanded, the man grinned at her like he knew what she had said without needing to speak the language, like he knew from the shake of Lucy’s fingers around the handle of the dark knife that he still had leverage, still had a chance, “Lucy, this is not a joke, there’s more coming, slit his fucking throat-,” 

“I c-can’t do-,” she said, her voice mostly hiccuping breath, whipping her head from side to side, sending her short, dark hair swishing across her face with the motion. The man’s face was screwed up and slightly purple, his eyes skittering between the knife at the edge of his vision, back to Tessa, to his gun, he could pull the trigger at any second, less than a second, there was a bright red band around his upper arm, in the same spot Tessa had been shot, with an odd symbol on it-,

Tessa flung herself to the side and hit the wall of the office with her good shoulder, sending a deep shock of pain through it and down to her fractured thumb, and before the German man could follow her movement with his gun, she aimed and pulled and desperately, desperately, shot. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever, love you to death <3


	28. Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well it's too long living in the same old lives  
> I feel too cold to live, too young to die  
> Will you walk the line, like it's there to choose?  
> Just forget the wit, it's the best to use
> 
> Won't you follow me into the jungle  
> Ain't no god on my streets, in the heart of the jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is about 90% just Tessa being a dope bitch. hard not to like, except for maybe the ending. love you lmao have fun

9:22pm 

  
  


The man crumpled and screamed, cradling his wounded hand, his gun flung from his grip by the impact of the bullet. Tessa gave herself a split second to revel in the joyous shock that rushed through her. She had really been aiming for the band on his arm, a move admittedly and mortifyingly inspired by her own wound, but she would take her sudden, single moment of life-savingly good luck without a second thought. The man’s shrieks cut through the tiny moment of awful relief. The shot had shattered through his knuckles, his fingers were spasming with pain. Tessa stood unsteadily, her own arm throbbing, Lucy picked up his gun from where it had spun onto the dusty stone floor with a heavy dragging sound. 

“No!” The man shouted, scuttling back. _How beautiful,_ Tessa thought, _that of all the words for so many languages to share, it would be that one._ “No! Tiere! Animals!” He screeched, as Tessa approached, Lucy's silhouette slid behind him with mouselike footsteps, she wasn’t there, and then suddenly she was, the German’s pistol held high over her head. 

“Yep. Welcome to the jungle,” she said, in the same timid, sweet tone Tessa had heard her use when they first met, and Lucy brought the grip of the gun slamming down onto the back of the man’s slightly balding head. 

  
  
  


9:22pm 

  
  


“Tessa!” Came a distant voice from down the hallway. Not Germans, then. Not that it mattered. Either side was about as likely to try to kill her. Lucy sucked in air. 

Tessa blinked twice and lowered her aimed gun like she hadn’t realized she’d lifted it. Lucy’s hands were shivering like leaves. She couldn’t look down at her feet.

“Is he…?” she asked, and Tessa _tsked_ slightly as if it was all a shame and glanced dismissively at their victim. 

“No, he’s breathing,” she said, with a single, heavy sigh, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. She swayed slightly like the ground was moving under her and wobbled back to the detached wall, now laden with little black holes that were nearly impossible to spot in the darkness. Lucy was staring a bit obviously, trying to swallow her own shock, but Tessa paid her no mind. The rest of the family were shoving their way down the hall, all clipped voices and concern, and Lucy felt a brief flash of jealousy over Tessa, despite the fact that she looked like she had been awake for five straight days and crawled up from hell backwards. She had people who cared about her because they chose to, not because they had to, in one way or another, although Polly looked unsure if she wanted to throttle or embrace her. Then her eyes fell to the crumpled bodies around their feet, and her hand jumped to her mouth in shock, but that was the only reaction she gave. A tall man with a black handkerchief over his face and a cap pulled low followed her, but Lucy couldn’t see enough of his face to read it, and Michael came last, a small cut on his jaw which, compared to Tessa, made him look like the worst part of his day had been his morning shaving routine. In fact, he was the only one who didn’t seem almost intentionally disheveled; Polly had dark tear trails on her cheeks, and Tessa’s makeup had morphed into something akin to war paint. The tall man’s tuxedo was ripped across his knees and streaked with dirt. He clicked his tongue at the bodies, the blood sprayed against the wall, dripping onto the floor in dark puddles mixing with the dust on the stone. The blonde man lay facedown, the shot to his chest hidden from view. The leader, the one Tessa had called Markus, had gotten two in the abdomen, one from Tessa and one that Lucy thought might have been rebounding friendly fire. And the last man, the one whose pistol Lucy had stolen and then clobbered him with, was slumped halfway against the wall Tessa had been crouching behind, the balding circle on the crown of his skull shining very slightly, out cold, his destroyed hand still cradled to his brown uniform, darkening the felt. There was a rather long and very quiet pause as the newcomers took in the scene. Eventually, the man Lucy didn’t know spoke to Tessa in a resigned sort of voice, like this was exactly the sort of thing he expected from her. 

“Well,” he said, half a sigh. “Aren’t you having a busy night.” 

Tessa closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the wall. The hallway smelled salty and metallic, gunsmoke and blood. Lucy’s head was spinning. 

“What the bloody hell happened? And what is _she_ still doing here?” Polly demanded, sounding like she really meant “What is she still doing _alive?”_ and ignoring Lucy completely, as if worried that if she looked at her she would kill her. Tessa pressed her palm to the makeshift bandage on her upper arm, wincing. 

“Apparently, Thomas locked her in,” she said, flatly, and Polly finally turned to Lucy, locking her glittering eyes on her like a scorpion scuttling through the dark. Lucy swallowed hard, her throat closing up. 

“You and I ought to finish the job, love,” Polly said to Tessa with a casual flick of her fingers, her lips curving into a cruel smile, without taking her piercing eyes off of Lucy. Lucy realized suddenly that Polly was holding a long, shimmering shard of clear glass, almost invisible, Lucy took a trembling step back. Polly took one closer. Tessa straightened from the wall, and Lucy saw, very belatedly (but she supposed there had been other things to worry about), that a ring glittered on her left hand like the glass sparkling in Polly’s. She stepped in front of Lucy. 

“No,” Tessa said, the authority in her tone flat and uncompromising. Polly ticked her head, sharp and dangerous. 

“You needn't be involved, I can handle this myself. You’ve had your share of difficulties this night,” Polly told her, and Lucy almost laughed at the absurdity of the maternal note in her tone, as if she wasn’t speaking of first degree manslaughter. _Fucking Peaky Blinders,_ she thought, but there Tessa stood, the waves in her long hair tangled like a hurricane, Lucy gripped the knife hard in one hand and the gun in the other. 

“I said no. She just saved my life, and you’ll not touch her,” Tessa replied, Lucy saw Michael and the tall man glance at each other, and Polly’s eyes widened with cold curiosity. She spoke slowly, taking her time with her words. 

“You don’t deliver me orders, chavi. Ada was _my_ kin. And if Tommy wants her dead, do you _really_ think he’ll let you stand in his way?” Polly asked, shifting in the darkness, the stones and flashing silver thread interwoven into her dress catching the firelight and turning it to moon. And Lucy could hear the cold smile in Tessa’s reply, see the rise of her pale white shoulders as she drew herself up. She lifted her left hand. The thumb was swollen and bent oddly, and Lucy flinched, but Tessa just fluttered her ring finger, throwing fleeting sparkles of light off the dark walls. Then she dropped her hand and put it on her abdomen, like an ancient ritual. Polly’s eyes followed the motions, lips pursed. 

“It’s time,” Tessa said, softly, “for a new queen.” 

Silence fell like it had been dropped from the sky, thunder rolled and cracked in the distance, maybe it was bombs, the man with the demolished hand groaned quietly from his spot on the floor. Michael cleared his throat, but Polly and Tessa ignored both sounds, unblinking. Then the man began to sit up, and they were both forced to glance down. 

“So do we…?” Michael asked, feigning a bit too hard for nonchalance. The tall man with the large brown eyes looked down at the German guard unconcernedly, popping out the cylinder of his revolver and spinning it with his thumb. 

“No,” Polly said, “Leave him. The less bodies the better. We’ll be causing enough of a mess as it is.” 

But Tessa and the tall man shared a glance. 

“Might have to, Polly. You know the orders. Shoot to kill,” the man said, pulling down his handkerchief to scratch his nose. He was handsome in a boyish sort of way, with a jagged scar across one cheek. 

“Oh, sod off with your talk of “orders”. We’ve a hearing coming up with a laundry list of accusations we would do well not to add to,” Polly snapped. Lucy spared herself a brief moment of incredulity that her own life ranked higher on Polly's list of culpability than a fascist. Personal injury, she supposed, but even still. A radio screeched suddenly, and a familiar voice spoke through it, harsh like his breath over the static.

“ARTHUR, you need to watch your-,” Tommy said, Lucy hadn’t even really taken in the fact that none of the brothers were with the rest of them. Gunshots _popped_ overhead, or from the side, Lucy couldn’t tell, it felt like they were surrounded by the noise, so loud the man on the floor’s low, pained moans were drowned completely out for a moment. The second Tessa heard Tommy’s low voice she had turned to the tall man, who was holding a dark radio with a frown, _how did they get military radios?_ Lucy wondered, _and how the_ fuck _did they get a fighter plane?_

“Can’t see nothin’ in these fuckin’ trees-,” responded an angry mumble, then it was Tommy again. 

“Benson, come in,” he said, and the tall man pressed the transceiver. 

“Here, sir,” he said, so immediately present that it almost impressed Lucy. 

“Are they out?” Tommy asked, in the background of his words Lucy heard another deep, rumbling _boom_ of thunder. 

“Er-,” Benson said, looking around with a slight wince at the bodies, and at Polly, Tessa, Lucy, and Michael, all of whom were very much not “out” of anything. In fact, Lucy felt rather like a rat trapped in a cage. In the brief pause, the man on the floor moaned, shifting on the ground, his uniform smearing blood over the grey bricks. Benson was spared his response, because the radio crackled again, an undercurrent of terror flowing through the sound, 

“Arthur, ARTHUR, they’re flanking you-,” 

“I hear ya, Tom, I hear ya! We’re goin’ down right quick, gonna pick some of ‘em off-,” 

“Arthur, NO, you’re too low-,” Tommy’s frantic voice was cut off with a fizz, Tessa’s mouth was open in horror, Polly was staring at the radio, frozen. The sound crackled back so suddenly everyone jumped, John was screaming, howling at the top of his lungs in the background, his whoops swallowed by the _tatatatatata_ of the gun, 

“Gimme a loop, Arthur!” he shouted into a brief pause between firing, the engine droned, the gunshots shook the sides of the hangar with their noise, then, 

“FUCK! Fuck! The Vickers-,” Arthur was saying, his words jumbled, “jammed up- hit the propeller-,” there was a loud, creaking whine, like bending metal, “SHIT, John-,”

“Arthur!” Came John’s frantic reply, Tommy’s shouts overpowered by the sound of the groaning engine, 

“We’re goin’ DOWN-,” Arthur’s voice scratched through the static, Tessa whispered, “No,” so softly Lucy barely heard her, she had forgotten Tessa was even there, Tommy was ordering them to try to land the plane, John was shouting so loudly his voice was cracking like the radio. And then the line went dead. 

Lucy watched Tessa blink, her face completely blank. Polly didn’t look like she was breathing, Michael’s expression held all the horrifying desperation of a man drowning. Lucy watched Tessa turn to her, hand out, dark eyes dead. Tessa’s whole body was shaking, trembling, Lucy handed her the German’s gun immediately. Tessa pulled the hammer, her white teeth gritted. She pointed the gun at the man on the ground, whose eyes were just coming back into focus. Tessa pulled the trigger, the bullet sank into his head, and he dropped the few inches off the ground he had managed to drag himself with a fatal _thud,_ his skull smacking against the brick _._ Tessa handed the pistol back to Lucy.

“Here’s that gun you wanted,” she said, her tone completely even but her breaths shuddering, and Lucy felt sick, and unsteady, she felt how Tessa looked, but she managed a weak smile. Tessa just turned. Then they were all moving back down the hallway, running, their steps echoing off the wood and metal and stone. 

  
  
  
  



	29. Brand New Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got a shotgun tongue  
> And tick like a time bomb  
> All black everything  
> I've got a switchblade wit  
> That cuts like a bitch  
> And I think you two should meet
> 
> I wanna break free from my humanity  
> I wanna release the animal in me  
> Break free your curiosity  
> You're gonna give me what I need
> 
> I've got blood on my hands, no guilt on my conscience  
> The war in your path, the sex in your violence  
> All of my flaws, I wear them with honor  
> A purple heartbreak for all we've suffered
> 
> I am the enemy, I am the enemy  
> I'll be the enemy (here to save the day)  
> I got a brand new numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so turns out the reason i wasn't happy with this chapter the first time i posted it is bc, pacing-wise, it needed to be about twice as long. so i hope you guys forgive me, a lot of you had left me some really wonderful and encouraging comments that i really didn't want to lose, but i promise i will make it up to you somehow <3 
> 
> i'll put a break where the first version of this chapter ended and you can just skip to that if you'd prefer not to reread :) 
> 
> the complexity of this story continues to kick my ass but we're fightin' through it, guys, we are fighting through and battling on anddddd constantly questioning why we decided to make everything so difficult for ourselves. anyway, love u

9:25pm 

  
  


Bristol F.2’s had a well-known fault with the synchronized firing mechanism that prevented the Vickers gun mounted on the front from shooting off the plane’s own propeller. The fault being that said situation was not always actually prevented. Tommy had known. Of course he had known. But knowing things had never done him all that much good. No good at all, because he never listened, and without listening, knowing meant nothing, but he hadn’t quite realized that before the moment he when he stood on the ground in a forest, the leaves at his feet splattered with blood, staring up into the dark as the plane holding his brothers spun from the sky, like a broken bird that had hit a window. 

There was an emptiness in his chest that felt like a shotgun blast, worse, swallowing, burning, drowning, he thought he might be dying in every way possible all at once. He was running before the plane had even hit the ground, at the very end of the lawn, two hundred meters away from him, his knees wobbling until they almost gave out on him, he tripped on a branch and another whipped back across his cheek in recoil after he grasped for it to stop his fall, the dirt was hard against him and smelled like frozen earth, like elements, metal and water and blood, he shoved himself to his feet and tumbled through the edge of the trees, they would all see him, all the monsters and demons in the trees, in the dark, but he was flying towards the smoking plane like he was running across coals, and if he couldn’t breathe it didn’t matter, and if he didn’t live it didn’t matter, because his brothers and Ada would be waiting for him and Tessa would be better off, anyway-, 

A bullet sank into his back. 

It was remarkably odd how similar being shot was to being stung by a hornet, at least, for a fraction of a second, the vicious ones that had buzzed over the battlefields of France, swarming with butterflies that drank blood from the bodies, they had droned like a plane- the plane, 

Tommy pushed himself up, everything white-hot, everything blurred and burning, the dry grass scratching his cheek, a bullet landing in the dirt right in front of his eyes. Tommy rolled before he had even really thought to, his heart might burst, his shoulder might combust, he hoisted the Tommy gun up and wondered if names mattered, and he shot back over his feet from the ground, his back felt like it was tearing open, his bullets whistled away into the dark trees and the gun recoiled against him, shaking his body like a fit, 

The sound was concussive, the pain was so exquisite it was creeping in on the edges of his vision like figures emerging from the shadows, he crawled backwards, holding the trigger down like an accelerator, in the woods, a man screamed like a grotesquely warped birdsong, 

Tommy’s hand hit something hard against the earth. The sky looked huge, looming and black, lightning broke across it and, through the distance, down the lawn, was a deep, hollow  _ BOOM,  _ and then another, traveling through the ground like the physical feeling of a shake, a shiver,  _ BOOM,  _ another plume of fire past the hangar, the bullets went quiet,  _ BOOM,  _ Tommy’s fingers gripped the freezing edge of a bent metal wing.

9:19pm 

  
  


“Circle to the front, boys,” Tommy said, “your good time awaits.” 

It was a celestial command, or it might as well have been. The trees flashed and blurred beneath them, morphing into the black at the horizon and then slowly, slowly becoming the deepest shade of green, lit up by the debris still flaming on the manicured lawn. 

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major,” Arthur replied, like a little wound-up music box that knew its lines, and if there was a slight lilt on the  _ “sir” _ , then did it really matter, when he pulled the plane around anyway?  _ Might as well add an “e” to the end and have it done with, _ he thought, and then, suddenly, he was thinking of the day their dad had left, seeing Tommy’s young face pale and drawn, instead of the deadly forest, and the songs of bullets chirping off the metal like birds singing snapped his attention back. 

“Fucking snipers are everywhere,” John’s voice crackled at his chest, “- watch your two o’clock, Arthur, there’s some I just saw-,” 

Arthur yanked the stickshaft to the right, the plane dipped, the sky tilting like a ferris wheel in his view, he heard the distant click of John opening the hatch of the Lewis and feeding in a new belt,  _ All the ammunition a man could ever need,  _ Charlie had said, but they weren’t just  _ men  _ now, surely, now they were Gods, soaring through the heavens and snatching souls away in their fists, surely they were immortal, invincible-, 

The gun jumped and rattled in his hands like it had come to life, like the bullets were stealing the energy from the bodies they dropped, he swiveled the scope and peered down it into the darkness like a crystal ball that would determine his fate, but he knew it, already, he knew it. “We got more ‘o ‘em, John, look to starboard-,” Arthur shouted into the radio, trying to turn against a sudden undercurrent of blustery, stormy air, above them, lightning cracked over the blackness, God’s spilled gin, and turned the landscape bright like a stage, the burning factories and hulking outline of the massive hangar-,

“Need to fuckin’ reload! Give me a moment!” John said, but no sooner had he finished speaking than the pounding of the gun was shaking through the metal again like a drumbeat in Arthur’s bones, the little dark figures moving through the trees looked like little toy soldiers just waiting to be knocked over, frigid sweat dripped down Arthur’s back between his tensed shoulderblades, snuck down his collar and collected in his goggles like mist, maybe it  _ was  _ mist, returning fire popped up from the ground like matches being struck and snuffed out, Arthur swooped the plane so fast his stomach went with it, rotating in the night air, but there was the distinctive  _ ping  _ of bullets on the underbelly, if they had been right side up, they would have already been dead, 

“Arthur, ARTHUR, they’re flanking you-,” Even over the radio, Tommy’s voice held command, even more so, maybe, crackling with static like energy, like fear, he was somewhere on the ground, Arthur knew, somewhere in the trees zooming by underneath them, but the assault was coming from both sides, blocking their attempt back down the lawn, it was no use, 

“I hear ya, Tom, I hear ya! We’re goin’ down right quick, gonna pick some of ‘em off-,” Arthur assured him, John was already repositioning the Lewis, Arthur could imagine his expression, screwed up in concentration, and he wondered bizarrely if John had his toothpick in or not, 

“Arthur, NO, you’re too low! Back off, take the long way ‘round,” Tommy was saying, probably, but Arthur couldn’t hear him, his thumb pressed to the trigger until it almost hurt, adrenaline soaking him like snow, making everything brighter, making everything faster, he could see the tilted faces in the trees, the belatedly aimed guns as they turned too late, the faintest flash of red on their arms before they felled like the trees between them, 

“Gimme a loop, Arthur!” John bellowed into the radio, so loudly Arthur heard it behind him over the whipping wind, he pulled the nose up and pressed the trigger down, the engine whined, there was a volley of shots fired off from nearly right beside them, they had almost dipped the top of the trees- 

And then there was a very sudden, great  _ CLANG.  _ Arthur’s heart stopped. The gun stuck. The propeller was shaking and smoking, and then falling to earth like a dropped cigarette, Arthur stared down at its descent for a moment that stretched out and out like the sky, and then he realized he was speaking into the radio, saying, 

“FUCK! Fuck! The Vickers- jammed up- hit the propeller-,” the plane’s nose was dipping like a woman during a waltz, Arthur was pulling on levels he wasn’t even sure the actual purpose of, his hands completely numb and his heart lurching, John’s voice was shouting at him, but muffled, he had forgotten to use the radio, and when Arthur replied, frantically and fruitlessly trying to steer, he did too, “SHIT, John-,”

“Arthur!” Came John’s desperate reply, Tommy’s shouts were overpowered by the sound of the groaning engine, Arthur wondered whether he was watching from the earth, he pressed the receiver as the earth began to spin around him like a top, the fires looked like they were over his head, 

“We’re goin’ DOWN-,”

  
  


9:26pm 

  
  


He didn’t remember making it around the side of the plane. He could recall feeling, in a very distant portion of his mind, a numb surprise that he had made it at all, but he could never have said how. Arthur was slumped over the steering column, head down, terrifyingly limbs lax, and Tommy was there, suddenly, his vision was swimming, he was- he was- 

“ARTHUR!” He was bellowing, his brother did not lift his head, Tommy was climbing up the plane, slipping and skidding across the frozen, sideways metal, cold cold cold everything was cold and the night was silent and frozen, too, suspended, Tommy ripped the goggles off of his brother’s face, there was blood on the corner of his mouth, Tommy was going to suffocate on his own breath, 

Arthur’s eyes blinked open blearily, Tommy’s lungs caught and stuttered on a choking gasp of air that smelled like smoke- 

“Don’ like... your idea... of a good time, Tom,” Arthur muttered, his words slurred and head lolling slightly, his tongue flicking to the side of his mouth where the blood was running down his chin, “John-,” he said, woozily, and Tommy was nodding and saying something, saying John was fine, he was sure that John was fine, fucking impossible to kill, that one, Tommy would know, wouldn’t he? And then he was skidding down the plane, John was crawling from the rear cockpit, dragging himself out with one arm, his right hanging at his side, broken wings- 

Tommy was calling for him, reaching for him, John looked up, Tommy wasn’t sure John’s eyes were really seeing, his stare was misty and crossed but Tommy took his face in his hands,  _ my blood, my kin, my brother,  _

Tommy thought he was speaking, he thought John was nodding slightly, he pulled him the rest of the way out of the harness, 

“You ‘ave to get out of here, John Boy, they’ll be at it again-,” Tommy told him, not particularly comforting, but he wasn’t interested in comfort, he was interested in motivation, he was interested in terror and rage, 

“Who’ll be where?” John asked, dazedly, Tommy was heaving him down the side, onto the grass, he staggered and then toppled over, his back to the crooked plane, half a wing lying ten meters away from the rest of the body, a black mass that looked like an enemy in the corner of Tommy’s eye, everything was an enemy, everything was a threat, and everything was dark, the whole world was going black, and he was going with it-, 

He got Arthur down, too, sheltered behind the steaming, smoking metal, they had been lucky, really, that they had been flying so low. Tommy couldn’t think, even if he had tried. There were no thoughts, now, no feelings, it was empty inside him like the lawn spread out before them, and then, as he heaved Arthur’s arm around his shoulders, Tommy saw dark figures approaching, half a dozen, a dozen, two, swarming from the dark cavern of the hangar, and even from the distance, he could spot the faint glimmer of guns. 

“They’re comin’ for us, Tom,” Arthur muttered, and Tommy rather wished he didn’t already know that. He stared up at the plane, gray and unassuming and crippled, just like he was.  _ Broken guns are weapons still,  _ he thought, and he told Arthur to stay down, gave him the 1918 and put the Tommy gun in John’s limp grip, and climbed the overturned ladder and scuttled across the plane, a bullet shot out across the no-man’s land, the noise cracking against the emptiness, then another, and he slid in behind the tipped Vickers and braced his weight against it until he thought his shoulder was being ripped off, until he was screaming with the pain, like vessels bursting, like bones shattering, and the gun tilted back. 

  
  


9:27pm

  
  


The plane had landed horizontally upright, as if it was just waiting for them to take off again, and lucky it had. Lucky for him and John, who would have been obliterated otherwise. The bottom sheets of metal were warped and twisted. And lucky for Tommy, who had, after everything, ended up behind the gun. 

The firepower lit up the burning night, shattering the sky like glass, cracking across the lawn. It reverberated through Arthur’s skull, ricocheting pain through his ears like the bullets were trapped and bouncing around in his mind, he pulled himself upwards anyway. Tommy’s face was warped in a snarl, explosions from the firing gun throwing shadows on his deep eyes and cheeks, teeth bared, as the distant, black shapes dropped to the ground, either to escape or because they had been hit, Arthur put a hand on the rails and began to walk at a crouch, step after slow step, to his brother. Tommy glanced up at Arthur in shock, almost swivelling the gun on him, and then he grinned. Arthur had seen that smile once before, as they had burned down a club, he thought of the bottles popping on the floor like bullets. He hunkered down on his stomach, reloading the 1918. A dull metal clanking came from the other side of the Biff, and a hand holding a gun came up from the ladder, and then John’s head appeared over the side. 

“Get back down, John, ya hit your head,” Arthur muttered, but John sniffed and cocked the Tommy gun, maneuvering to a spot to the left of Tommy’s cockpit. 

“‘S like I said, innit, Arthur?” He said, still sounding dazed. “Shelby brothers never fuckin desert each other.” And Tommy roared so loudly the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end, aimed at the faceless shapes on the lawn, and pulled the trigger. 

9:30pm 

Tommy’s radio crackled as he swung the sights of the barrel back to the front doors, briefly pausing the wash of bullets, a biblical flood, like cleansing, 

“Mr. Shelby,” said the voice, and somehow, the sound was crystalline between the rocketing of his brother’s guns beside him, “I have your family. Please halt your slaughter if you wish for them to live.” And the line clicked dead. 

  
  
  


* * *

9:23pm

  
  


Thomas Shelby was a right fucker most days. He was poor company, he was sullen, and silent, and arrogant as all hell, and Alfie had a rather unfortunate predisposition to incendiaries, anyway, so blowing up the pikey’s shining automobiles, all black exteriors and gold details and glinting silver wheels,  _ fuck _ knew how much they really cost, was no tall order, and would likely end up being the highlight of his (admittedly, otherwise quite shitty) day. Or night. In any case, the bombs were set. Alfie had a friend who owed him a substantial amount of favors who was a smuggler, ran his operation through London. Sometimes through Alfie. Grenades were no problem. Tommy Shelby could’ve gotten actual grenades too, the little pissoff, but no, he had gone for the non-lethal option and wasted everybody’s time, all to spare a couple off jumped-up toffs the world would likely actually be better off without, and now, here Alfie was anyway, on his hands and knees on the dirt drive with his head under a display car, rigging as fast as his cramped fingers would let him. He lurched to his knees with a grunt, bracing on his cane, squinting down the drive into the faint distance, where headlights were beginning to pop out from the night like nearly invisible stars. 

“Right, Jerimiah! ‘Ere they come!” Alfie barked, and the Jewish boy, well, not  _ born  _ Jewish, that is, but it was all the same to Alfie, anyway, that one, the one who had that family from Yorkshire, threw him an affirmative sort of gesture, spreading the word. A man who had fought would have known to respond verbally, to ensure clarity, but that’s what you get for waging a fuckin’ war with teenagers you’d picked up off the street. Alfie had left his good men home. If they lost this battle, and the Perish came for his people, Alfie wanted them to be able to put up a good fight. And he knew the Blinders, anyway. He knew Tommy would have taken the whole militia out by himself, if only he could manage a way to be in multiple places at once. He’d done it last time, after all. Alfie admired that, sure. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still going to enjoy exploding Tommy’s vehicles, though. He rubbed his palms together like flint, backing slowly into the hangar, his boys running the wire between the wheels of the two cars in front of the bay opening behind him. Trip wire, that would trigger all three bombs, including the vehicle that sat only a few meters from the doors, if he looked carefully enough over his shoulder, he could see it glinting faintly a few inches off the ground. 

“Sir,” Jerimiah said, catching up to Alfie, which wasn’t very hard to do, as his knees were protesting their recent treatment, kneeling under cars on frozen dirt and such, which was why he was trying to get a headstart on the  _ fucking _ grenades, before the Germans barreled through and set them all off, 

“What,” Alfie grunted. 

“Sorry, sir, but what happens if, well, if…,” he trailed off, glancing over his shoulder, they made it onto the soft wood of the hangar’s floor and Alfie’s cane thudded dully, echoing in the vast emptiness. The cars shone in the darkness past the doors that rose five meters high behind them. “If the whole place catches…” Jerimiah’s voice faded again, and he glanced at the distant end of the factory, where the equally huge rear doors looked almost a normal size from so far away, he didn’t say  _ and we become trapped inside it,  _ but Alfie could tell he wanted to. 

“Well then, they’ll fucking burn, too, won’t they, mate?” Alfie asked, his brow lowered and his gaze unflinching, and Jermiah drew in a sharp breath. Alfie looked back again, as the headlights swung down the drive, in a line like perfectly choreographed fireflies, lightning snaked across the sky in a blinding flash and then everything went dark again. Alfie’s men were hurrying indoors, clutching rifles and pistols and machetes, pulling masks over their faces, there were wheels squealing against the hard-packed ground, men were jumping from the vans, brown uniforms and red bands, 

“So where the fuck’s that plane, then, eh, Tommy?” Alfie muttered to himself under his breath, but his only response came from twenty yards behind him, where, at the entrance to the hangar, there was one deep, cacophonous  _ BOOM,  _ and a grinding of metal and a burst of light, Jerimiah jumped beside him but Alfie turned slowly and began walking backwards at a casual pace that he could tell was setting Jerimiah’s teeth on edge, the rest of his men were flooding past them, away from the falling debris, then  **BOOM** went the sportscar stood in front of the open doors, shaking the remaining windows, the whooshing, swirling, glowing fire swelling past the car and into the hangar, illuminating it in the most vibrant, warm light, catching on the black shapes that had begun to spill past the doors and were now rolling on the ground, screaming, trying to put out fires on their bodies and trying to replace their own limbs. Alfie lifted the golden, half-moon spectacles hanging from around his neck, and stared through them, and kept walking slowly backwards, feeling his way with his cane, Jerimiah was throwing a terrified glance over his shoulder at the scene, silhouetted so perfectly it looked like a hellish diorama, as he stuck loyally, but quite unnecessarily, by Alfie’s side. The air smelled acrid, like fireworks and burnt flesh, nauseating and explosive and unsteady like the ground might crack open beneath their feet. Sometimes when tunnels collapsed in the war, they took the men standing above them down, too, no warning, just gone, just like that, swallowed into the earth. But it was better that way, Alfie thought, it was better not to know. He did not imagine he would be so blessed with a painless, or at least unexpected death, himself. No, it would be much too unlike him to depart so peacefully. Alfie would go out with a bang. He tipped his head at the ceiling, at the distant skylights showing the clouds of smoke. 

“Now, you don’t happen to hear, I don’t know, something like a… like an airplane engine, perhaps?” Alfie asked, and Jerimiah paused like a timid mouse in a hole, then shook his head. Alfie pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

“No, mate,” he said, “no, me either.”

The third grenade blew. 

  
  


9:25pm 

  
  


“Sorry,” Tessa was gasping, Benson was skidding to a halt, his dress shoes slick against the smooth grain of the wood, nearly toppling over her where she was bent double, a hand pressed to her mouth. To his rather great surprise, Lucy had already halted by Tessa’s side, missing tooth and all, dried blood staining her chin like she had eaten a deer’s heart raw. Tessa’s gloves were gone, Benson realized, and her pale fingers were splattered with dark stains, the diamond ring sparkling like a miniature star, gripping the side of a covered table. He put a tentative hand on her back, and then took it off just as quickly, because her skin was bare, slick with cold sweat, and it felt oddly invasive. Polly and Michael continued ahead, running to the back of the hangar, Michael’s longer strides quickly outpacing his mother, who glanced over her shoulder, but Benson waved her off. It was her family, her nephews. He understood, but he had his own orders. Lucy stood stock still beside them, face drained of color, her eyes wide, and if Benson said he didn’t feel for her, even a little bit, he would be lying, but Tessa’s shoulders were shaking with the force of her retching, and it was her wellbeing he was truly concerned about. 

“The blood?” He asked Tessa, in a quiet tone, like she was a wounded comrade on the battlefield, and she was, really. Most men lost their lunches at the sight of the carnage after a fight, but she shook her head quickly, wiping vomit from her lips.

“The baby,” she said, he hadn’t really thought of it as a  _ baby,  _ yet, as a child, and the sudden enormity of it hit him in the chest. There was life at stake, a new life, a new chance. He thought of Ella, and the little purple bundle on the table. His eyes felt suddenly, shockingly damp, he felt suddenly  _ responsible,  _ but the moment passed when Tessa stood waveringly and wobbled over to an empty table, grabbed a mostly-full glass set on its surface, still upright, took a swig and rinsed out her mouth. She made a very disgusted face. He assumed it had been vodka and not water. 

“Fucking lush toffs,” she muttered, and put the crystal glass back down onto the white linen. 

“Tessa, are you-,” he began, but- 

“Please don’t even ask,” she interrupted with a sigh, turning and continuing to walk to the end of the room, sounding so tired he snapped his mouth shut out of pure pity. Lucy cleared her throat, softly. 

“You’re pregnant,” she stated, and Tessa shot her a rather halfhearted glare over her shoulder. Lucy pressed her lips together. “How far along?” she asked, and Tessa scoffed. 

“I’m not fucking discussing this right now, it’s not important. We need to get to Arthur and John.” Benson reached out and turned her by her good shoulder, imploringly. 

“We could go, you know, we could get out of here-,” he began, tentatively, and Lucy was nodding empathetically, but, 

“We need. To get. To Arthur and John,” Tessa repeated, firmly, turning to the doors again, and then the radio squealed. 

“Benson, you’ve got incoming,” was all Tommy’s voice said, Tessa’s head whipped back around so fast it looked like her neck had been broken at the sound of it, 

and then, from outside the open front doors, there came a great, rattling **BOOM.** Lucy screamed and ducked, shielding her head with her arms, the ground shifted beneath their feet like a duck shaking water off of its back, **BOOM,** went the sky again. Tessa was staring past the huge bay doors, her mouth open in shock, as the glimmering motorcar staged at the entrance was momentarily lifted off the drive by the last, biggest bang, a burst of light and heat so strong Benson could feel the waint waves of it wash over him like the sun at the beach, and then it faded suddenly like the sound had been sucked out of the world. Lucy stood tremblingly, Benson could hear glass crunching under her heels, and the front of the building had begun to glow. 

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for that to have been thunder,” Benson quipped blandly, and Tessa swayed on her feet. 

“Probably,” she said, still facing the direction of the fire, but then he realized Tessa wasn’t transfixed by the flames, but was instead staring into them with her brow furrowed, 

“Someone’s coming,” she said, darkly, Benson cocked the revolver, Lucy squeaked and Tessa said “Wait!”

“Is that-,” she started at ask, and then a gruff, jovial voice, called, 

“Ello, Tessa. My, you look a right state, don’t you?” and Alfie Solomons emerged from the smoke like a wizened Nordic god, clanking on his cane over the rush and roaring of the flames. A man followed by his shoulder, he was lean and slim and looked hardly twenty, and more were marching in behind them, black handkerchiefs pulled up over their faces. Benson nodded at them, and got a few bobbing heads in return. Solomons eyed Lucy with a piercing look of extreme calculation that then quickly morphed into amusement. 

“And  _ look _ who you’ve got wiff you! Give us a smile, then, love. Go on,” he said, and Benson had to stifle his snort, trying and failing to pass it off as a cough, but Lucy just glared back, her bloodied mouth shut tight, looking daintily war-torn. 

“Mr. Solomons, we think the plane went down, did you see-,” Tessa said, very quickly, and Solomons frowned and tugged his beard, his face twitching. 

“Mmph, yeah, yeah. Quite unfortunate, that. Needed that fuckin’ thing,” he said, his head shaking, and Benson scowled and stopped himself from taking a step forward for his disrespect. 

“Arthur and John were both inside it, Mr. Solomons,” he ground out, and Solomons raised a scraggly eyebrow. 

“Oh they were, were they? And why the fuck should I give a rat’s arse about that?” He grunted, and Benson’s jaw twitched. The skinny man to Solomons’ side was nudging him nervously, the smoke from the explosions was clearing into three distinct pillars, Benson could see through the front doors again, 

“Sir, they’ll be coming any moment-,” the man to Solomons’ left said earnestly, Lucy took a step closer to Tessa that Benson didn’t think was entirely intentional. 

“Who? What?” Tessa commanded, but the Jewish man just spread his large hands in a peaceful shrug. 

“About that, yeah, right. They will be, won’t they? Yeah, and likely none too pleased about their reception,” he murmured, a mild expression on his face. “Reinforcements,” he added, in response to Tessa’s confused, prompting eyebrow raise, and Benson thought if it was possible for her to get any paler than she already was, she would have done. She swore, and huffed in disbelief. 

“What do we do,” Tessa asked, through white lips, Solomons cocked his head, looking like a large bird, in his heavy coat and wide-brimmed hat, golden spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck. 

“Best to hunker down for a minute, mm? Let them  _ cool off a bit,  _ I’d say,” he replied, and Tessa’s eye flickered to the glow beyond the doors, the windows, 

“So, hide?” she said, and Solomons smirked a bit. 

“Yeah,” he told her. “Yeah, well, you know, somethin’ like that.” 

“The offices lock,” Benson said, quickly, Lucy nodded like she would have agreed to anything. Benson could see the fight raging in Tessa’s eyes, as she glanced back at the lawn, 

“Go on, then,” Solomons said, gesturing vaguely, heavy gold rings glinting on his hands, then scratched his face, looking obscenely serene. The glow of fire flanked three sides of the building, and even past the back doors to the lawn, through the high, shattered windows, Benson could see plumes of smoke billowing into the sky from the spot the stage had once been, he couldn’t see a burning plane, 

“You’re not coming?” Tessa asked, and then seemed to think better of her own question. Alfie  _ tsked  _ and scoffed haughtily, rearing his head like an offended cat. 

“Pft. Fuck no,” he said, “and turn this down? Haven’t had this much fun since I was runnin’ from them Russian ‘ounds. Good story, that. I love a good story.” But his eyes were set and narrowed, like he was bracing himself, carrying something heavy, despite his easy tone. Benson knew the look. Tessa strode forward very suddenly, Benson saw Alfie flinch back in surprise, but Tessa only stood on her toes to press a kiss to the irritated skin of his cheek. 

“Thank you,” she said, “for all of this.” 

“Mm hmm. _ You  _ smell like you’ve been swimmin’ in spirits, madam,” Alfie grumbled, but his nose twitched. He grunted and then sniffed. “Right, then. Be seeing you. Trot on, now,” he said, fluttering a hand at them like that would physically push them away. A gun had appeared in his hand as if he had summoned it there. Benson took Tessa’s good arm, something he had to crouch to achieve. Lucy had already started walking as fast as her legs could carry her. 

“Come on,” he said, and for once, Tessa let him lead her. 

9:17pm

  
  


There was a man in front of him, and then there wasn’t. It could be like that, in the darkness, just shockingly, revoltingly easy. Like they were bottles lined up for target practice, except if you didn’t hit the bottle, it would hit you first. Bullets cracked through the dark trees, sounds rippling like ocean waves, the snapping of frozen branches under his feet, the mighty roar of the Bisfit over his head, zooming and droning, propeller and engine and John’s rapid gunfire. Tommy didn’t have an inkling of what time it was, how many of them there were, how well his men were doing comparatively, he felt like an arm severed from its body, he felt like his body had been severed from his head, like he was a vessel, a tool, a machine. Black trees flashed by him, the vague glow of the burning remnants of the stage on the lawn and the shops flanking the hangar, whose windows had burst and lights had gone out. Tommy’s own breath was ragged in his ears. The list played in his head,  _ inhale, exhale, review the plan, observe the situation, react accordingly,  _ it’s just noise.  _ It’s just noise.  _ He sucked in air through his nose and out his mouth, cold air that felt heavy with the weight of the oncoming storm, that smelled like ash and the promise of winter. The oiled guns glinted in his hands, he swung the 1918 on the strap around his shoulder and crouched to the leaf-strewn ground, peeking out behind the aged trunk of a fallen tree. He ejected the empty box magazine, went to replace it with a fully loaded one strapped to his ankle, and froze as his radio squealed, echoing off the silent trees, muffled gunfire occasionally rumbling with the thunder in the distance. 

“Tommy, yeah, you might wanna come in, mate, I’ve some-,” there was a crackle of static, “-well, to be quite honest with you, i’ve got some  _ really  _ unfortunate news that, you know, I thought you might be wanting to-,” 

“What is it, Alfie,” Tommy responded, so quickly his tongue nearly tripped over the words. The radio buzzed, robbing him of one of his hands, he would have to drop it to go for a gun if someone was approaching, 

“So the thing is, yeah, the thing is,” Alfie began meanderingly, despite the fact that Tommy could hear a jumble of rushed voices shouting behind him in panic, “is that there’s more o’ these cunts  _ coming _ , mate. Trotting on right down the lane like they think they’re from some superior heritage or some other such-,” 

“Moss has the roads blocked,” Tommy said, releasing the transceiver to slam the loaded magazine into the semi-automatic. “Exits, tollways, everything’s shut down-,”   
“Right, well, Tommy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but they’re fuckin ‘ere, right, loads of ‘em, and probably coppers on the floor, too, I would imagine-,” 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Tommy said, under his breath, spat it out like a bloody tooth. He pressed the little red button again. “How many?” 

“Haven’t-” the line cut out, “faintest, Jerimiah here came round the corner just now, didn’t he, said there’s more ‘o the bleeding bastards come down the drive wiv guns an’ vans-,” there was a wash of static like the tide, “-so if I could offer a suggestion, yeah, it would be to tell your fuckin’-,” Tommy couldn’t catch the insult, but he hardly needed to, “brothers-” another jarring, metallic squeal, “come ‘round the front, you know, quicklike, right, because  _ fuckin’ ‘ell, not like that, you’re wrapping the fuckin’ wire wrong, isn’t you, you tosspot, give it ‘ere-,”  _

“Alfie, what the fuck are you doing?” Tommy asked, wind hissed through the trees like flying bullets, 

“Leavin’ some gifts, aren’t I, like a proper host should, just some good, old-fashioned party favors, you know,” Alfie grunted, “They’ll be comin’ through the front doors, won’t they, can’t get ‘round the sides with all that fire and them trees and-” Tommy felt like he was breathing through a straw, Alfie’s words faded slightly and then slipped back into focus, “Now how much  _ exactly  _ did you say them prototypes are worth, mate, and along that same line of questioning, how would you value-,” the radio  _ BRRRRRZZZed, “ _ your own life, right, if one could quantify that sort of thing- comparatively, you understand-,” 

“You are  _ not _ blowing up me fucking factory,” Tommy said, he would fucking kill that Camden Town pain in the arse, he would get back his ruined, million pound investment from him and then he would  _ kill  _ him-, 

“Ain’t got the firepower for that, do I, treacle, don’t piss yourself-,” Alfie’s voice was muffled like he was holding the radio against his shoulder, “Always wanted to do this, I have,” he said, impossibly cheerful, “-I must say, Tommy, I do enjoy your style of entertainment, very hands-on, very interactive-,” there was movement in the background, and then static, and then he returned, Tommy’s chest was heaving so hard he was afraid his lungs would catch on an inhale and be too tight to ever let it go and he would suffocate under the weight of his own survival- 

“So where  _ are  _ those wonderful family members of yours, can’t never seem to rid myself of you Shelby’s, most times, fuckin’ figures that the moment you could actually do a man some fuckin’ good, right,  _ poof,  _ nowhere to be fuckin’ seen-,” 

Tommy looked up at the hazy sky, smoke outlining the tumbling clouds, fire lighting up the horizon like a bastardized sunrise, he couldn’t spot the plane past the trees, but he could hear it, hear it thrumming like veins filled with cocaine- 

“Yeah, I’ll send ‘em ‘round,” he said, against the speaker, the metal cold against his lips, the night cold against him, “didn’t feel like mentioning that you had fuckin’ grenades earlier, eh-,” 

“Course not,” Alfie huffed, “knew you had it handled, didn’t I? Oh, right, right, congratulations on the engagement and all that, by the way, but Tommy, may I ask, how  _ do  _ you walk around with those massive bullocks all the time, I mean, do they often get in your way, or is it more of a third-leg situation where it actually  _ benefits  _ you-” there was a crack, like a bullet, like a twig snapping underfoot, like a jolt of the radio, Tommy didn’t know, “must’ve been granted  _ something  _ to make up for, yeah, for a complete and  _ total _ lack of sense, because I truly  _ cannot  _ even fuckin’ imagine, mate, the  _ absolute-,”  _ Tommy stopped listening, tilting his head, straining his ears for the sounds whispering through the forest, “completely fuckin’ mental, that stunt-,” 

Sometimes, in France, Tommy would lift his gun and shoot and not realize he had done it until the sound of the shot slapped him awake. Killing is about control. Taking it, losing it.  _ Everything is about control,  _ he had said, but the barrel was raised and the trigger was pulled and it could have been anyone, anyone, he would not have flinched, he would not have stopped, he was not in control,  _ he was not in control _ . The black shape of a man landed in the dirt and the leaves, something in Tommy tugged him closer, towards the body, some dark desire to witness his own destruction, his own devastation, some kind of confirmation,  _ this is what you’ve done-  _

_ “ _ Now technically, right, seeing as I outrank you, I will not be awaiting your signal, yeah? But if you  _ are  _ still alive, I would very much appreciate some such verbal confirmation as to whether or not yours truly will be expected to provide you with, well, God fuckin’ knows, really, a refund for destruction of property, or-,” 

“You have confirmation,” Tommy said, blankly. He was steady, his hands, his legs, everything but his breath. 

“Wonderful,” Alfie said, “where’d you hit ‘im?” There was a moment of reverberating silence that filled Tommy’s ears like rushing water. He stared down at the body. There was a dark, leaking hole above the man’s left eye, which was still open, staring sightlessly up into the black clouds, glassy and reflective and empty. Tommy didn’t ask how Alfie knew. Maybe he had heard the shots. It didn’t matter. 

“Just fuckin’ get it done, Alfie,” he told the disembodied voice in his radio,  _ Get it done, Tommy,  _ responded the voices in his mind,  _ get to work.  _ He took a lungful of air through his nose, held it, let the sting of the cold burn down his airways until that was all he was, hot blood and frozen breath and nothing in between, he twiddled the dial on the radio with fingers that should have been shaking- 

“Come in, Arthur,” Tommy said, and suddenly, as if called like a falcon to its master, the Bristol was overhead, looming its darker outline against the ash-black sky, suddenly John’s petulant voice was on the other end of the line, 

“Supposed to call us the  _ Eagles,  _ bruva, fuck’s sake, you’re never any use for a good time-,”  _ cracklecrackle crackle-  _

“Circle to the front, boys,” Tommy said, “your good time awaits.”

9:27pm

“Fuck,” Tessa said, as they came to a halt in the hallway, exactly where they had been only a few minutes prior, but it looked different, somehow. “ _ Now  _ it’s the blood,” she told Benson, who threw her a sympathetic look she didn’t deserve at all, really, given whose fault it was, and it all looked different, it looked  _ worse-  _

The air smelled like a slaughterhouse, like blood had been misted through it by a fan, something thick and sour like fear was clinging to it. Sweat was gathering at Tessa’s temples and sliding down her back, despite the cold, the generators had gone out what felt like years ago. She stepped over the blonde man’s thick leg, Benson following carefully behind her like he didn’t want to disturb anything. The bottom of her heels were sticky, the blood had seeped into a puddle from his chest, it was running in a trickle still from his mouth, dripping onto the floor- 

Tessa tore her eyes up and away, and then was immediately looking back, as she heard a rustling behind her. 

“What are you doing?” She asked Benson, who was crouched by the German’s body, flicking open his knife. He cut the red band off of the other man’s arm with a practiced slice. 

“I’m behind on my rent,” he said, rising, and Tessa mimicked his motion with a swift tug of her eyebrows. “Mr. Shelby said twenty thousand goes into the hardworking hands of the man who brings him the most of these, and, well,” he shrugged, “it’s not like  _ you _ need the money.”

Tessa heard Lucy scoff slightly, the first sound she had made since they had come back to the grisly scene in the hallway, and couldn’t tell if she was appalled or impressed. 

“Benny, if we get out of here alive, I’ll pay your rent for a year,” Tessa said, and Benson gave a ghost of a smile and took a few long strides past her to the next body. 

“You’ve got a deal, madam,” he said, “but I’m still taking these.” 

Tessa lifted a shoulder in a small shrug and continued heading to an office whose door handle she hadn’t already shot off, and then very nearly tripped. Markus’ body had been moved mostly into the shadows, moved by  _ someone,  _ she turned again to warn Benson but there was already someone behind him, Lucy was gone- 

And everything went black. 

  
  


9:30pm 

Outside, it started to rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visuals for Evol are done!! Broke/n is on the way. Here's the link if you'd like: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/evol/
> 
> and hit me up whenever at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ways-to-fall


	30. Devil's Backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord, oh lord, what have I done?  
> I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run  
> Oh lord, oh lord what do I do?  
> I’ve fallen for someone who’s nothing like you  
> He’s raised on the edge of the devil’s backbone  
> Oh, I just wanna take him home
> 
> Oh lord, oh lord, he’s somewhere between  
> A hangman’s knot and three mouths to feed  
> There wasn’t a wrong or a right he could choose  
> He did what he had to do
> 
> Give me the burden, give me the blame  
> I’ll shoulder the load and I’ll swallow the shame  
> Give me the burden, give me the blame  
> How many, how many Hail Mary's is it gonna take?
> 
> Don’t care if he’s guilty, don’t care if he’s not  
> He’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I’ve got  
> Oh lord, oh lord, I’m begging you, please  
> Don’t take that sinner from me  
> Oh, don’t take that sinner from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is about 50% shameless self indulgence and 50% delving into a topic that this story hasn't really addressed in depth up until now, which is PTSD (Tommy's, specifically). so if you find any of the symptoms triggering, pls be mindful!! love u so much 
> 
> also some ~neat perspectives~ goin' on so I hope you guys enjoy them <3

1918

It isn’t that good men never get sent to war, it’s that they never return from it. 

“No one came back,” the brothers said, sometimes, and what they meant was “no one came back the same” or maybe not, maybe the empty streets spoke for themselves, in the hissing of wind whipping around stone corners, or maybe that was the whispers of the ghosts. The guilt was the last, but the hardest. 

_You’ve forgotten about us,_ said the spirit of a once-good man, and you say _never, I promise, I promised,_ but the hands reach up from the mud and grab your ankles in your dreams and accuse you of the worst crime, the last part, the hardest, you can’t. You promised. 

But you go home.

Lost, like dead, is a permanent state. You go home, but you don’t, your body is there but your soul is stuck in a hole under the ground with the others, and everything is upside down because their bodies are in the hole but the souls came home, you know because they’re beside you, because you can hear them, just around the bend in the road. 

In the twinkling amber of the light through whisky glasses and gaslamps casting warm glows, the mood was a dusty white of dry bone, at odds with the cheerful atmosphere, bare and carved and crackling with exposure. A man had just walked through the doors, and he had eyes like forbidden jewels in the heart of a deep, dark cave. 

“So you made it back alive, Mr. Shelby,” the man at the bar said, 

“What gave you that impression?” the other replied, or maybe, “Whisky,” he said, “Irish.”

The man at the bar nodded. The people in the room were glancing at each other as if to seek others permission to look at the man. _He can’t persecute all of us,_ but that was what _they_ thought, he was a pharaoh and he could send them into the fucking desert. The man moved with deliberate surety, and it was a whole room full of pretenders, all the people, pretending not to stare, and him, pretending not to notice. His eyes stuttered briefly closed as he tossed back the glass, a butterfly’s wings closing and the vibrant color vanishing for the space of a heartbeat, then open again, flashing crystalline and cold. The spirit burned, the spirits burned, down his throat and in his chest. “‘ _S funny,”_ Arthur had said once, even though it wasn’t, it wasn’t at all, “ _even though they says they was put to rest, they still keep followin’ me ‘round,”_ but they weren’t put to rest, in the dirt, in the mud, hands clawing to the surface, just buried, buried, _made it back alive, Mr. Shelby._

Tommy gave a command with a lifted glass, 

“Yes, sir,” was the answer. 

_Antithesis, is what it is,_ he thought, staring at the fingers of burning liquor in the glass, _mutual exclusion, incompatibility. If guilt was last, shock was first. And it was over quickly, too quickly, visceral horror turned daily minutiae within two months of being sent off._

_It was worse when they started good. You felt like you were losing something, that way. Otherwise it was like succumbing, an “well, it would have happened eventually”, a defeated sputter, like dying of old age. The fall to hell is usually just a slight drop the last meter down. And it was worse because it didn’t matter. And it didn’t last because it didn’t matter. The good men killed other men who might have been good, but you would never even know, because the trait of potential goodness was an irrelevant factor of no sway, which held no consequence. The ground was hungry and cared not for the sanctity of its meat. And at the end he saw that when it came down to it, a lifelong commitment to morality had exactly the same influence over a man’s fate when staring down a grenade as his opinion on whether or not a dandelion was a misunderstood floral or a voracious weed, the shrapnel would tear into your heart and your god and your honesty and your faithfulness and your little yellow flowers would not shield you,_

_And the shock came when they all learned the truth, and it came again, and again, and again, until the news meant nothing like the good meant nothing,_

_But it was still worse when it began this way, because part of them all wanted to believe it, at least a bit, that it meant_ something _that it all meant_ something _even if your hands were around another’s throat,_

_But the man still died, and you didn’t, and it had nothing to do with dandelions._

_So why not, then?_ Tommy thought, 

And nothing answered because nothing could. 

“Another?” Harry asked him, and you can guess what he told him, so (“ _why not”)_ , then, 

“I’ll tell you the secret, Harry; truth is always whatever you don’t want to believe. 

And someday, it’ll be God who prays to me.” 

  
  


1917 

Watery Lane was layered in cold like a film over everything she touched. She trailed her hand down the wooden bannister, letting the chills shake the sleep from her body. 

“Ada! It’s been bloody forever! Would you come down, now, please?” Her aunt’s irritated voice rang out down the hallway, loud and sharp, and she started a bit when she turned and saw Ada standing in the kitchen behind her, but recovered quickly. “Finally,” she said, “Are you ready?” 

Ada thought _Not really,_ but she said, “Yes, of course. Sorry, Pol.” She pulled her eyes from the sight of her father slumped over in the tiny guest room, nearly comatose after showing up completely sloshed on the doorstep at two in the morning. How he had heard what day it was, she had no idea. She hadn’t seen him in eight years. It felt about that long for the boys, as well, even if that wasn’t really the case. 

She had seen John and Arthur twice since the start of the war, and Tommy only once, even though he was an officer and was supposed to have been given extra privileges, and never all together. Soldiers were allowed to come home once every fifteen months on permissionaries, but that wasn’t true if you were on the front line, even if technically, you were below it. 

John had been tired. He slept for most of the week he had been given. Arthur had downed a bottle of whisky a night, said he hated having to go back to drinking the piss they gave them in the trenches. And Tommy had barely said a word. 

Now, waiting on the train platform, Ada’s stomach was twisting a bit, half bubbling joy and half seeping apprehension. Her brothers felt infinitely older than her, coming back from years in a different country, years in a different life. And their father back, after all this time, today of all days. They filed off the train in single file, each holding the same equally dingy little rucksack that carried all of their worldly possessions, and her heart clenched. John looked up and grinned when he saw them, and suddenly, Ada wanted to cry, wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob, but they would never have stood for that kind of thing, not in public, so she forced herself to stay put and smile back, and then there came Arthur, freshly shaved and younger-looking for it, yelling her and Polly and Finn’s names, and then Tommy appeared from inside the train, trailing behind, and Ada’s feet had carried her across the platform and into his arms before he had taken more than three steps. 

“‘Ello, Ada,” he said, his voice as low and rumbling as ever, and she blinked hot tears out of her eyes, pressing her face to the front of his uniform so that he wouldn’t see. He smelled different. Tommy hugged her back, quick and tight, she cleared her throat and pulled back, John was spinning Polly around in the air by her waist, much to her chagrin, Arthur was crouching down to ruffle little Finn’s hair. 

“It’s good to have you home,” she said, and tried a watery smile at him, but instead of the one she expected in return, he just nodded slightly and blinked, staring blankly into the distance. 

“‘S’good to see you,” he replied, like he had suddenly realized he ought to, giving her a quick visual sweep. “You look well. All grown up, eh?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ada, because she wanted him to think she was, with another tentative grin that he still did not return, his blue eyes refracting to gray in the slight fog of the early morning under his beige soldier’s cap. His face was gaunt and hollow like a skeleton, like the war had pulled his bones closer to the surface with the force of death. 

“Where’s dad?” Tommy asked, and Ada bit her lip. So Polly had warned him somehow. 

“Couldn’t get him out of bed,” she answered, reluctantly, and Tommy didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look anything, really. Except lost, like he wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up where he was. He nodded, a tightness flickering through the sharp curve of his jaw. He was looking at Polly and Finn with the same expression she expected men wore as they peeked out over the top of the trenches. She saw him take a short, tight breath, chest expanding with the inhale. She took his hand, and he nearly yanked it away, like a reflex, like a leg jerk when you get hit on tender spot in your knee, and she frowned. 

“It’s alright, Tom,” she said, quietly enough that there was no way for the rest of the family to overhear. The train whistled behind them, melancholy, and began to chug away. Tommy’s lips thinned, but he nodded again, and let her tug him forward. 

Tommy was silent during the ride home, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between Arthur and John, swaying slightly in the back of the wagon. Polly had bribed the milkman out of his cart for the afternoon, so that they wouldn’t have to walk. No one said anything about it, but John smiled around his toothpick. Finn, however, spoke more during the half hour back to Watery Lane than he had for months, and it made Ada’s chest swell with something dangerous and misplaced, something like hope. 

That night, the bright feeling dissipated into the air around her like the smoke from Tommy’s cigarette. A knock sounded on the front door, echoing through the relative quiet of the house, Tommy stood from his spot at the kitchen table. All the eyes and the ears followed him down the hall, Polly’s stare keen and apprehensive. Knocks on the door past seven were rarely social calls. There was a low murmur of voices Ada couldn’t make out, and her aunt wouldn’t meet her curious gaze. Tommy returned with his eyes downcast, stalking past them, completely shrugging off Polly’s insistent questions. He gathered John and Arthur from their huddle by the fire, spoke a few fast words, and they all began shrugging on their coats and were out the door before so much as glancing at the two women, like a pack of hounds who had caught the scent of blood. Ada huffed. 

“I hate being a bloody girl,” she said, and Polly inclined her chin in acknowledgement but then turned to stare back out the window at her nephew’s retreating forms. 

“Men have their share of burdens, too,” she said, and Ada hummed noncommittally. 

When they returned, Arthur and John had a stumbling body slung between them, arms around their shoulders. Tommy slammed the door behind him so hard that Ada’s teacup rattled, and she exchanged a startled look with Polly. He came into the kitchen, white faced with fury, and Arthur and John dropped their father into a chair in a slump. 

“Ada, upstairs witcha, now,” Arthur said, his voice clearer and less sluggish than Ada could remember hearing it since he had begun sneaking into the Garrison’s liquor supply when he was sixteen. She shook her head. 

“Yes. Go check on Finn,” Tommy told her, his voice flat and detached, completely at odds with the strange, furious gleam in his eyes, she hated seeing him angry, she hated the way his voice sounded, 

“No!” she spat, but then it was Polly, soft and firm all at once, telling her to listen to her brothers, and she stomped out of the kitchen and made a show of banging loudly up the stairs before she crept back down silently, avoiding the creaking fourth step. She peaked into the kitchen through the crack in the mostly-closed door, and gasped, as she caught a glimpse of a raised fist, Tommy hit her father in the face so hard it sent his head lashing to the side, the impact making a heavy _smack,_ and he roared blearily, clutching his chin, Polly was shouting at Tommy, Arthur crossed his arms and John worked his jaw. 

“What the _fuck,”_ Tommy was hissing, in their dad’s face, leaning down, Ada couldn’t separate the pride from the revulsion, “kind of explanation do you have for yourself, eh?” he asked, and Arthur Sr. grinned toothily, blood staining his gums. 

“War finally taughtcha how to hit right, eh, son?” he said, when they were younger, Tommy had spoken with an Irish lilt to mimic his father, and it was strange to remember a time before the sound of his cheerful tone hadn’t made them all cower. Tommy had always hit back, even when he was eleven and their father had broken his arm. It was one of Ada’s earliest memories, Tommy coming home with tears streaming down his cheeks, closing himself in his room for hours before Polly gave up and picked the lock, finding him in a huddled heap on the floor. Now, he swung again, and their father reeled backwards to avoid it, landing unsteadily on his feet but knocking over the chair with a clatter. He pushed the table over, and Ada flinched, but Tommy stood like steel, Arthur and John watching with lowered brows and set teeth. 

“You _dare_ swing at me, you little fucking _cretin,_ I’ll slice yer cock off and throw it out onto the street-,” Arthur Sr. bellowed, lunging forward and grabbing Tommy by his shirt, Tommy cracked his forehead against his father’s and Arthur Sr. toppled. John dropped to catch their father before he hit the ground, but Tommy snapped his hand out, palm up, and barked, 

“Atch!” and John listened like he never had in school, and Ada was wondering what the fuck had happened to them, what had happened to her family- “He’s mine,” Tommy growled, Ada shivered, the violent glare in his eyes had turned savage and icily feral. He hadn’t been a good boy, growing up, but he had never been a bad man. She didn’t know, now. She didn’t know him now. From the floor, her father wheezed a laugh, and tackled Tommy’s ankles out from under him. 

“That’s _enough-,”_ Polly snapped, Arthur was trying to hold Tommy back from their father as they both scuttled to their feet, but he slipped free and aimed a kick to his ribcage before he could rise. It was almost pitiful. It was almost sad. It was almost a victory. Ada bit down on her lip to stifle her empathetic squeak as Tommy’s foot collided, knocking the wind from her father like a popped balloon. 

“Stay down!” Tommy commanded, 

“This is my fuckin’ ‘ouse!” Her father yelled back, once he had recovered his breath, spittle flying from his lips and his face red like a beet, mustache twitching, Tommy’s eyes were cold cold cold, his mouth warped in the faintest sneer. “Giving me fuckin’ orders in me own ‘ouse-,” 

“It’s not _your_ house,” Tommy said, boldly, “this has never been your house. And I’m getting tired of cleaning up all the shit you drag around with you.” Through the crack in the door, Ada could see Arthur’s hands crossed in front of him, her brother’s fingers fluttering anxiously but his face as hard as Tommy’s. His knuckles were already starting to bruise, and John’s eye was blackening. Another pub brawl, then. Her father had been tossed out of at least three pubs that month alone. This time it looked like things had gone even farther south. It looked like someone had gotten killed, it looked like someone had gotten killed by her brothers that her father threw in front of his path of destruction like he always did, made them fight his wars for him, and Tommy was tired of it, of fighting other people’s wars, she could see it, she could tell. Tommy spoke slowly and clearly, looking down at his father like he was a cockroach on the floor. 

“Get out. Don’t come back.” Black lashes blinked over crystal eyes in a face of stone. No one breathed. His voice rang like a bell. Then Arthur Sr. snorted, and Polly said, 

“Thomas, let’s not-,” and Tommy pulled a black revolver from inside his coat, the same one Arthur and John carried, she had forgotten they had been given them, in the war, _what a perfect plan for disaster,_ she thought, _teach men to kill, give them all weapons, and send them on home,_ to bring everything down from the inside, it felt like everything was coming down from the inside- 

“I ever see you again, I’ll kill you,” Tommy said, easily, like he was saying it looked like rain tonight, and their father wasn’t laughing anymore. He blinked woozily at the barrel between his eyes, Polly’s breaths were labored and she stood with one hand outstretched, frozen, like she could drop the bullet out of the air somehow if the trigger was pulled, John was looking frantically between his brother and father. Arthur Sr. spat blood onto the floor, and Ada knew she would have to scrub it out of the worn rug. 

“Yeh won’t,” he said, and Tommy cocked the hammer, and their dad stood. “Yeh won’t see me again,” he added, and relief crossed Tommy’s face before he could conceal it and then just like that, it was gone, and he was gone again too, as if disappearing behind a wall. He lowered the gun. Arthur Sr. put a shaky hand on the wall to brace himself, and limped around the room. John stepped back to let him pass, his eyes on the floor. 

“Nothin’ to say to me, boy? No kind partin’ words for your old man?” Arthur cajolled, and John lifted his chin. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a few,” he said, spat. “Fuck off.” 

Their father’s face soured. 

“What about you, Arthur? My eldest, the man who’ll lead once I’m gone?” He called, and Arthur’s nose twitched and he didn’t meet his namesake’s eyes. 

“You are gone,” he said, quietly, and his voice was sorrowful like a swan song. Their dad turned, finally, to Tommy, who blinked impassively. Before Arthur Sr. could speak, Tommy said, 

“Get away from this family.” 

The older man shook his head, his familiar face drawn in a frown that pulled at the scars on his cheeks. 

“What about you, Addie?” He called, he had known she was listening, maybe they all did. She froze behind the door. “My girl. You want me to go?” 

Ada stood slowly, pushing open the wooden door with a loud squeak. Her family stood, staring at her, like it was her final judgement, like she was God deciding whether to damn a soul to hell. 

“We love you, dad,” she said, softly, and if she was as grown as Tommy claimed, her voice wouldn’t have shaken, but it did. Her father looked pleased, then confused, then concerned, all within a matter of moments. She thought about Tommy’s broken arm, looked at Arthur’s bleeding knuckles and John’s black eye, hoped that Polly would forgive her. Then she turned, and walked back up the stairs. 

19something

“You’ve killed people before,” she remarked, suddenly he was leaning into a tilted, black car, blowing a man’s brains against the ceiling, he just looked at her, wishing she wasn’t asking. He didn’t respond. “How many?” she continued, he decided to evade, and if that didn’t work, to shut it down. 

“Why the fuck d’you want to know that?” he asked, and to his surprise, she grinned. 

“I was thinking about body counts,” she said, “In their various definitions.” 

Her flippancy made him scoff, and he did nothing to dull the edge in his tone. “Ah. Princesses find the deaths of the rabble amusing,” he said, and she shot him a glare that gave slightly after a moment. 

“What’s it like?” she said, rather shocking him, she didn’t _care_ that she wasn’t meant to ask such a thing, 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and she shrugged. 

“I supposed that if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t,” she said, and he blinked at her. There was a very long pause. Minutes, even. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “ and… it’s easy.” 

Her lips caught and formed the last word like she had been the one saying it. 

“Is it easy for everyone?” 

“Don’t know,” he told her. 

“Does that bother you?” 

“… I don’t know,” he admitted, and she hummed. 

“Do you know _anything_?” she asked, and he huffed a breath, the barest chuckle, 

“No,” he said, 

“I know that what should sicken me doesn’t, and somehow that’s what fucking does. I know I wanted to be better, I used to want _better,_ but _better_ got shot, two in the gut, and _goodness’_ legs were blown off on Tuesday, _bad way for good to go,_ we said, with a click of our tongues, and carried on. I know that the things that go bump in the night are real and they climb into your mind through your ear and I know what it’s like to put the gun barrel to them just to try to scare ‘em silent for just a minute, for just a fucking moment-, and tell me, when was the last time you believed in anything? 

I don’t believe,” he said, and took the bible and replaced it with a gun, _no good men came back_ or _no men came back good, “_ I don’t believe because instead of faith I have fact, instead of God I have drugs, there was no palm reaching down for me in the dirt, no angels and no deliverance and no fucking explination, so take me soon because I swear to you I will make the punishment worth it when it all ends, there is no need for trust when you have proof, it’s not real and it can’t hurt you, they’re not real and they can’t hurt you, _it’s not real it’s just sound it’s just noise-,_

_I know-_

_I know there are things that can’t be unseen, blood that can’t be washed clean, but_

_I’m in a room, and they’re coming at me._

  
  


1914

  
  


A shell dropped, whistling through the air like a tea kettle. Tommy gritted his teeth and they were smeared brown with dirt, and Freddie was thinking about muddy footprints in white snow, that odd feeling you get when observing them and knowing someone had already been there and left them behind. They belonged to someone, those footprints, but no one around remembered who. That was what it felt like, being in the war. The country had forgotten about them, their friends and families and lovers had all forgotten about them, but there they still were, leaving their bodies on the frozen ground, the imprint of their souls, fading and lost. A grenade popped and chunks of icy earth ricocheted through the air, knocking against their heads. Tommy wasn’t even wearing his helmet, Freddie saw. They didn’t use them much, down in the tunnels. But they weren’t in the tunnels now. 

“Take _COVER,”_ a hoarse voice yelled, and something came down on his head and the black swallowed him before he even hit the ground. 

  
  
  


Tommy was sitting beside his cot, legs stretched out, smoking. Freddie remembered sharing their first cigarette when they were nine, stolen from the pocket of Tommy’s father’s coat. Freddie had coughed, but Tommy didn’t. 

“So the world will be forced to endure seeing your ugly mug for another day,” Tommy said, lowly, his eyes fixed on the glowing embers of his cigarette instead of Freddie’s face. His head was pounding like someone was beating on it. 

“Maybe even two,” Freddie said, trying to sit up. It took him a while. 

“Concussion,” Tommy said, unprompted, eyes now following the drifting smoke. The med tent was cramped and dimly lit. “Might’ve knocked some sense into you, God willing.” A man on a cot beside Freddie started hacking like he had forgotten his lungs out in the wasteland somewhere and was trying to learn to breathe without them. 

“Been a while since I’ve heard you talk about God,” Freddie said, closing his eyes to stop the room from swimming in his view. Tommy’s lip twitched in a mocking smile. 

“Been a while since I’ve had anything to say.” 

Freddie frowned slightly. Tommy was not a devout man. Freddie had never seen him cross himself, or pray, but he had also never heard this. 

“You don’t think-?” he started to ask, before he had thought better of it, but Tommy interrupted with a scoff and a hand drug down his dirty face, mud under his nails and knuckles split from colliding with a wooden support underground. 

“No,” he said, shortly, and a man to Freddie’s left groaned, probably waking from the morphine. There was never enough morphine. 

“No?” Freddie asked, wincing as he leaned on his elbows. 

“No, I don’t,” Tommy said, sarcastically elaborately. 

“Why not, then?” Freddie asked, and his friend looked at him with a nonplussed expression. 

“Because what part of _this,”_ he said after a moment, sweeping his hand to generalize, “makes you fucking believe in any of that?” 

Tommy hadn’t talked much in school, because Tommy didn’t talk much at all, but when he did the teachers had always gone on about his foul language. A mark of poor breeding, they said. The message of the words had never mattered to them, had never even been given a second thought. Catholic schooling seemed to have a way of making the rebels _worse,_ Freddie noticed. You would think after a while they would have realized their methods weren’t often effective. Tommy had grown quieter and quieter until he had stopped attending at all, just another empty desk, another family with bigger issues than something trivial as school when there were bellies needed filling. But Tommy had always been quick, and it wasn’t his fault the teachers had refused to see it. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t believe in anything, when he had never been given anything to. 

“God doesn’t cause war,” was all Freddie said, and Tommy snorted, sending a stream of smoke out of his nose as if to say _He’s caused plenty._

“He’s not fucking stopping it, either,” he said, and took another drag, chest rising and blue eyes lit up from the little amber glow. 

1924

It _was_ easy. It was too easy. The metal trigger against his finger offered little resistance, such a tiny movement it took, so little force, there was a lack of honor in it, really. 

_Thems-_

A voice floated in his ear, not over the gun but through it, like the sound was part of the violence, part of its song. The removal it gave him, the separation it allowed, 500 rounds a minute, that gun had, chewing up ammunition through its metal mouth and spitting them out, hot and deadly, down the lawn. 

_Them’s who’s-_

Sound wasn’t real. There was no sound, no noise, just pressure, just pain. That’s all there _was,_ now, just push or pull, pinch or prod, _if it doesn’t hurt, don’t think about it, if it does hurt, especially don’t think about it._

Tommy had always liked animals. They had used canaries, in the tunnels. By the third winter, Tommy stopped taking his down. The bird deserved to live more than he did, anyway. 

_Them’s who’s gone-_

If it wasn’t easy for him, he didn’t think he would mind it, and knowing that didn’t help. He was there one minute, and then he would slip and fade out and then he was gone and instead- 

_Them’s who’s gone are-_

Sometimes down in the tunnels, they would get ambushed. 

“What happened to you back there, Tom?” Ada had asked him once, imploringly, desperately. Now, he rather wishes he had told her, as it seeped back in, past the glass walls in his mind, maybe that would have hemmed the tide like a too-long dress, but maybe not. Tommy didn’t think so, anyway. 

_Them’s who’s gone are the-_

Can’t really bring guns into the tunnels. You can try, and they all did, but close range with revolvers, you’re about as likely to collapse a beam than you are to get someone. Freddie had taken a bullet for him, fuck knows why. Tommy still couldn’t figure it out. He wondered if he would’ve taken a bullet for Freddie, and thought _probably not, but after all, that’s why nobody wants to be a communist._ Maybe it had been a complete fucking accident, and he had just used it as ammunition against Tommy all that time, but Tommy doubted it. 

_Them’s who’s gone are the lucky-_

So, since you didn’t have a gun, you got to work. You did what you had to do. Entire platoons were wiped out in underground skirmishes. You fought until your side was the only one left, or until you were the only one left at all. 

_Them’s who’s gone are the lucky ones._

They could hear them coming through the walls. Could hear them coming, and knew what fate approached them, could hear them coming like the slither of death’s scythe across the dirt. They slept in shifts and did snow to stay awake and while he clutched his gun to his chest like a grandmother does a rosary Danny would mumble- 

But the next part, that was easy. 

“See, while you’re inside the tornado, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that you might be moments away from death, it doesn’t matter that for the next for-fucking-ever, apparently, you’ll wake up as if from an electric jolt because every time you close your eyes you can’t fucking breathe. The eye of the storm is the storm. And it never passes, because it is always, always trying to pull you back.” Was what he had told Ada instead, and she blinked at him. 

“What happens if you give in?” she asked, and he said, because he was a quarter bottle deep, 

“Then you become it,” 

And everything rips apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen if im going to have ALL these tommy feels you get to FEEL SOME WITH ME, i promise we'll get back to the action soon  
> how are we doing, aside from currently fearing for the lives of every single character in the story? lmao i PERSONALLY am terrible but such is shitty adult life. talk to me talk to me i miss you guys this chapter was v fun to write and the next ones Will Not Be so wish me luck


	31. Saints of the Sinners (Carpe Omnia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When jokers smile and angels cry  
> We lose ourselves and lose our minds
> 
> We're taking the cracked crowns  
> Break them down  
> Hang 'em on the bedroom wall  
> We're dancing with bloodhounds through the town  
> Banging on padlocked doors  
> And we're singing like oh,  
> We're saints of the sinners, saints of the sinners  
> And we're coming for you

1916/1924, 9:30pm

_“They’re getting closer,”_

The gun rattled like it was coming apart, Tommy’s shoulder felt like it was coming apart, everything was fucking coming apart, and he let it. 

_The leaking, muddy walls were tight around them, the air was crushing and damp, as if he was inhaling the dirt instead, the lights from the torches swung wildly in their hands as they moved in a crouch, single-file._

He didn’t necessarily mean to, but he had been counting. Once he realized he was doing it, he couldn’t stop, the night was cold and blazing bright like a comet’s tail, he couldn’t feel his limbs, couldn’t feel anything, and yet felt things he had never been capable of before. The tornado spun him like a match down a drain, he was repeating the motions of reloading before he even recognized fully that his trigger was clicking empty, 

_Tommy’s mouth tasted acidic, like nausea and fear, his breaths were panting over his dry tongue, the sticky air slipping down, thick and heavy._

_“I’ll lead,” Danny told them, Tommy and Freddie allowed it, grateful for the pass._

_“Watch yourself, Danny,” Freddie said, Tommy told him to be careful, and Danny edged by them to the front of their sad little marching line. Up above, he had vomited yellow bile into his empty tin mug. Now, his shoulders were set, his wide eyes wider, whites flashing in the brief illumination as he passed Tommy’s torch. The muddy wall gave slightly under Tommy’s hand, squishing between his fingers around the Smith, wet and cold, but Tommy’s skin was hot to the point of burning, like a sickness._

They couldn’t run directly down the lawn without being toppled by the Vicker’s waves of bullets, which they learned after the first group of men who passed the smoking remnants of the stage went down like their achilles had been cut, so they tried to flank from the sides and burst out through the trees, which might have worked, had Tommy been alone. Arthur’s face was pressed to the scope of the 1918 so hard it was squishing his cheek, his taunt shoulders absorbing the recoil, and none of the brown shirted men were making it close enough to get more than a shot off, John was facing away from the hangar and defending from the rear, in case any of them circled ‘round, the two of them balanced like resting crows on the glinting metal of the plane, 

_Adrenaline felt like cocaine and love felt like opium, or at least, they used to. Recently, the roles had begun to flip and reverse, and he craved violence like snow and sex like the smoke, and as he crawled through a tight corner of their rathole his blood was hot and pumping, dizzying him, or maybe that was the lack of air._ Thomas Michael Shelby, born dirt, died dirt, _his tombstone would read, and he was suddenly, viciously angry about it, rage bubbling up through him like lava,_ there _has_ to be more than this, _he thought, staring at the darkness, the brown rock and mud and dirt and earth pressing on him, smothering him,_ this can’t be all that I’m given, _he thought,_ this can’t be it, 

_And a voice told him_ It’s not about what you’re given, it’s about what you take.

_Picks tap tap tapped._

You want more? _The voice asked,_ “You want everything?” 

_Take it._

_Take everything._

_Take the very breath out of their fucking lungs._

He turned the lights off, unplugged the wire, and let the flip switch to “kill”. He was empty like a tomb, and the dead don’t pray. 

He stopped counting, and for a minute, one piercing minute, inside his mind there was silence. 

9:32pm

“Mr. Shelby, I have your family. Please halt your slaughter if you wish for them to live.” 

John was already lowering his gun before the voice had stopped speaking, the firefight had just taken a momentary pause, filled with heaving breaths in the silence, the words from the radio cutting across like a knife. The brothers stalled like engines, Arthur’s teeth were still bared in a snarl. 

“Do not presume that I am bluffing,” von Stein’s slick, pompous tone was distorted and roughened by the static, “I assure you, I am telling the absolute truth. In fact, let me prove it to you, so that you understand there is no reason to doubt my promises when I make them.” 

There was a rustle. “Speak,” said von Stein’s voice in the background, another moment of confusion, muffled sounds, a slap, and a shriek, and he watched Tommy’s face drain to a deathly white as he recognized the voice it belonged to, Polly’s name was a horrified breath on his lips, and then his eyes snapped like a bone to a burning, empty fury. 

“Do I have your attention, Mr. Shelby?” His voice was back, Polly fell silent in the background, Tommy was standing like a statue. Thunder rolled over their heads. 

“What do you want me to do,” he asked, not a blip in his tone, impassive, indecipherable. But his eyes were nearly glowing in his mask of a face, John knew that expression, but only barely. Slips of it came out, sometimes, Tommy would ignite, brief and bright, and then control it quickly down like tamping a fire, and it was always so quick and he was always so in charge of it that John never really paid it much thought. He admitted to himself that he considered Tommy something close to impenetrable. Shakable, maybe, but even then it would be intentional, manipulative, he never imploded like Arthur, he was never thoughtless like John. Even now, despite the wild white walls of his eyes, the rest of him was blank and even as a blank canvas. His eyes were the only way John could tell he was still alive in there, and most of the time, they were closed off too. 

“As I said,” von Stein replied, shortly, “put your hands in the air and slowly approach the hangar. I will not kill you, my men will not shoot you. I want you to witness their deaths first.” Tommy’s jaw was fluttering with how tightly he was clenching it. “I’m speaking to you, Mr. Shelby. It is quite rude to not respond in kind. Mr. Fischer, I think we should teach them some manners, don’t you?” 

Tommy’s forehead creased, he didn’t even have time to say “Who?” before there was another, shriek through the static like a warped recording of the underworld, Tommy’s whole body flinched like he had been lashed across the face, von Stein continued. 

“Oh, yes, the father of that reporter your woman murdered, he’s a adamant supporter of our cause,” his words were flippant and careless. “He’s a banker, normally, but it’s _funny_ what seeing the corpse of your son can do to you, how it can change a person, and how quickly. Like now, for instance, I’m going to have him carve up your aunt. Your cousin will come next. Do hurry, Mr. Shelby.” 

John realized he had been clinging so desperately to each word that he had heard each of them perfectly, clear as a ringing bell, and he only realized they had stopped coming when he heard the wind swishing through the tops of the trees in the silence. His ears were buzzing at such a high pitch it was making him spin, in the absence of the bullets and the plane. Ada gone. Polly and Michael taken. What had he gotten from his choices, their brother? How did the earnings compare, when weighed against lives? The scale tipped down for them, always. John didn’t know why. Polly said it was in the blood, but he had hoped they had spilled enough of it by now that maybe it wouldn’t be true anymore. That didn’t seem to be the case. Arthur’s mustache was twitching as he set the 1918 onto the top of the plane. He was still wearing his cap and goggles, hadn’t even had time to take them off. Tommy was frozen still, staring sightlessly down at the ground, dry grass several meters below them, littered with bullets like sprinkles on an explosive cake. His knuckles were straining against the radio, the veins in his hand flooded with tension and blood. 

“Well, the fucker didn’t say anything about our weapons, so I vote we just hang on to ‘em,” John quipped, the sky opened up with freezing rain, and Tommy said, 

“Put your fucking guns down and get off the fucking plane,” so soft and quiet that John recoiled at the low sting of poison. Tommy pulled himself from the rear cockpit, away from the Lewis, and Arthur and John followed his motions mechanically, to the railing and the steps down the side of the plane, the metal becoming slippery under his hands, wet with water dripping, tears from the sky. John wondered how Tommy knew where he was going, personally, he wagered he couldn’t have run in a straight line if you drew one on the ground for him to follow. It felt, in the very most literal sense, like walking to hell, except the land was flat as a board and ‘hell’ was a towering building, hulking like a dark giant, looming over them in the night. John tripped on something, looked down, a body was lying on its stomach, arm bent unnaturally over its head, so incredibly, horribly still that it looked like a lump of dirt through the darkness. Tommy’s shoulders were stiff and square, his head up, strong jaw set. Arthur’s lips were still warped in a snarl. John smiled, a bit wickedly. 

_Fuck it,_ he thought, _at least if we go, we all go together._

And they walked across the no-man’s-land, empty, savage, and grinning, _if Finn was here, he could be gloomy, and then we’d be the four horsemen,_ John thought, and another clap of thunder rolled. 

9:32pm 

The leather of the gloved hand over Tessa’s eyes was cold. She threw her left elbow up somewhat randomly and felt the _crack_ reverberate down her arm as it collided, there was a harsh grunt, and then a shot was fired, ringing off the close walls, the hand dropped, with a bloody gurgle from behind her, and another body joined the three already in the hall, Benson was lowering his smoking revolver with his lips warped into an unflinching frown as the body hit the floor. A dark stain seeped across the chest of his brown uniform, Benson was crouching and ripping off the red band on the man’s arm with the odd symbol and Lucy was staring at him with awe in her bright eyes. Tessa’s breaths were heaving, she couldn’t remember how to breathe. 

“Patrol,” Benson said, shortly. “Probably already warned von Stein. He’ll know we’re here, and he’ll know we killed his son.” 

“ _I_ killed his son,” Tessa said, shortly. She wasn’t about to drag them to the gallows with her. “If they heard the shot, they’ll be coming. We need to move.” 

“We need to _go,”_ Lucy said, emphatically, “we need to get out of here, as far away as we can, as fast as we can-,” 

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Benson said, there was a vibrating aura around him like he had been charged up with adrenaline, he glanced very quickly at the growing puddle of blood on the floor behind Tessa, and then away, “But I’d wager my salary they’ve got the place surrounded. I fear we missed our very slim opportunity for escape.” 

“We could climb through a window,” Lucy suggested, she was staring at the ceiling and breathing through her mouth to limit the overwhelming smell of death, Tessa didn’t blame her. 

“Still need to get ‘round to the front, get a car, if we wanted a chance in hell. Can’t just run willy-nilly down the drive-,” 

“ _Willy-nilly?”_ Tessa interrupted, and Benson glared at her. 

“Yes, Tessa, you’re very welcome for saving your life, don’t mention it,” he muttered, and Tessa’s lips twitched. 

“What about that man- with the soldiers-,” 

“Alfie didn’t bring soldiers,” Tessa said, “he brought boys. He knew how this was going to go and he didn’t want to waste his good men on a potential slaughter. Anyway, they’re out back, on the lawn-,” 

“No,” Benson said, shaking his head. “Green’s too open without air coverage. They’ll be fighting in groups, in the trees.” 

“Well, _either way,_ they can’t help us,” Tessa said, the glimmer of hope in Lucy’s face faded like a snuffed-out candle, and then Benson’s radio crackled. 

“Mr. Shelby, I have your family,” a cold voice said, the words dripped like melting ice down Tessa’s spine, _Michael and Polly,_ static hissed like a snake’s rattle. _Tommy,_ Tessa thought, he was speaking to Tommy, he must be alive, he _must_ be alive, somewhere, doing God knows what. God knew what. Tessa did too. Killing. Winning, even, probably, if von Stein’s only remaining avenue was using hostages. A last resort, but a horribly effective one. Tessa felt a surge of pride and horror. Then a cry echoed through the radio, and all that was left was the fear, he had _Polly,_ they had Polly, and Tessa had to act, had to save her. 

“What do you want me to do,” came another, deeper voice, if Tessa had any capability for tears left in her, she might have shed some because of that alone. Benson held the radio tight in white knuckles, and it was a good thing, too, because otherwise she might have snatched it desperately from him, just to make sure, to make _absolutely_ sure, a wave of pain drowned out von Stein’s next words like a fizzle of the static, her thumb throbbed, her elbow ached, her arm fucking _burned_ like the fires flanking the hangar, growing brighter and hotter and closer like they did, eclipsing on the edge of her consciousness, a glowing hot sun. 

“I’m going to help them. You’re both coming with me.” She said, her voice leaving no room for sway, and Benson spluttered. 

“You’re- what-,” he managed, and Lucy balked. 

“Do you have some kind of _deathwish?”_ she whispered, and Tessa retorted immediately. 

“ _You_ owe me your life,” she said, pointedly, Benson mumbled, 

“Oh, _now_ that counts for something,” and Tessa turned her eyes to him, ignoring the pain. His eyebrows were pulled low, the shiny scar on his cheek catching in the darkness. 

“I want you to be godfather,” she said, and he started, stared, sighed. 

“Are you manipulating me?” he asked, in a resigned tone, and Tessa shrugged. 

“Is it working?” 

Benson scratched the shaved side of his head. 

“You don’t want to ask Mr. Shelby, first?” 

“ _Mr. Shelby_ isn’t the one carrying it around, is he?” She crossed her arms, which was a mistake, the very blood stung in her veins. She was losing too much. She was worried she was losing too much. Benson was silent, his soft brown eyes wide. “So, do you _not-?,”_

“No, I- I would,” he said, rather quietly. “It would be an honor, I just- surely, the brothers-,” 

“John’s already got kids, and Arthur’s Karl’s godfather, and I’ve never said more than five words at a time to Finn,” Tessa rattled off, and then her voice softened. “And anyway, I want it to be you.” He blinked rather quickly, cleared this throat, and nodded. Lucy huffed impatiently, but was still gazing at Benson with a dizzy look on her face. 

“Come on, we’ve fascists to kill,” Tessa said, and Benson gritted his teeth and turned back down the bloodstained hallway. Lucy caught Tessa’s hand, which made Tessa yelp. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Lucy muttered, then nodded her dainty chin at Benson. When her mouth was closed, she was still beautiful, but the missing tooth was like a tear in a master’s painting, the blood dried down her face and her words slightly lisping. Tessa felt no sympathy over the punch, but her stomach was twisting over leading them all like lambs to the altar. “Is he available?” Lucy asked in an undertone, and Tessa was hardly surprised. 

“He’s still recovering from the loss of his wife,” she responded, which was enough truth needed. Benson’s secrets were his own. Lucy pouted. 

“All the good ones are either dead on the inside or actually dead,” she sighed, and Tessa smiled. 

“Or both,” she said, thinking of Tommy, and Lucy winced. 

“Soon to be, anyway,” she said, they were reaching the landing where the hallway ended, “I feel like I should be praying,” Lucy said in an undertone, and Tessa thought about clapping her on the back or something, but remembered she couldn’t. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, instead, “the dead don’t pray.” 

Lucy’s smooth face wrinkled as she pursed her lips and shook her head, 

“Fucking hell, you Shelbys,” she cursed, and Tessa grinned. “Can I be godmother, then?” Lucy asked, and Tessa walked past her and threw a casual, 

“Fuck off,” back over her shoulder. 

  
  


9:30pm 

  
  


They were on the stage, the one inside, the one her nephew hadn’t blown to the high heavens. Yet. Polly wondered if this one was rigged, too, she wondered if Tommy would still pull the trigger if she was stood on it beside the line of fascists. She rather hoped not. Rain pattered on the metal roof like little bullets. The Perish had swarmed into the hangar on the heels of Alfie Solomons’ Jews, Polly and Michael had barely made it out onto the lawn before they were intercepted, hands in the air and guns at their feet. Polly thought they were going to be shot dead on the spot, but von Stein had halted the assault onto the green, where there was a racket like Polly had never heard, and she was from Small Heath, for Christ’s sake. And during their thirty seconds outdoors, before they had been drug back inside by their arms, Polly had seen them, down the lawn, her boys with their guns, posted on the wreckage of the plane, across the field Polly could see the quick flash of black shapes, weapons and bodies colliding and diverging, ducking and weaving and dodging, they were in the trees, from the distance, the Blinders were only discernible for their caps and masks covering their faces, and even then, only for a few meters. Past that, Polly could see only the vague roots of the trees lit up by the glowing orange fires dotting the lawn. It was a wonder they hadn’t caught, too. It was a wonder the hangar hadn’t burned, it was a wonder that the whole world wasn’t flaming, igniting over the horror before her. Arthur and John had told her about war, very barely, in snippets here and there. Tommy hadn’t, of course. But it didn’t matter, now, because she had seen it for herself. The Germans had to drag her back to the factory, the grass outside the bay doors was glittering with glass and remnants of the massive, torn flag. In the clearing, men were screaming as bullets found their mark. Polly was shaking like she had been possessed. The men had hauled her to the dark, wooden stage, smaller than the one outdoors, no stairs leading up to it, and then von Stein had ambled down the floor, there were at least twenty men with him, they looked small when she first spotted them, but the closer they drew, the larger they became, the more of them seemed to appear. 

“Mrs. Shelby, I’m sorry to have to do this to you,” he said, smoothly, “but your nephews have, sadly, left me no other choice.” 

“It’s Gray,” Polly said, bitingly, and von Stein blinked his terrifyingly dark eyes, flashing over his hooked nose. 

“What?” he snapped, so simperingly cordial one moment, so vengeful the next. 

“It’s _Mrs. Gray,”_ Polly told him, raising her eyebrows, the guard holding her shook her roughly by the shoulders. 

“Unstick your tongue from your cheek or I will remove it, Mrs. Gray,” von Stein said, flippantly, and a radio garbled in his hand. Polly wondered if it had been plucked off Benson’s body, and shivered. Someone else was approaching, but the man behind her, who smelt overpoweringly of spitting tobacco, was holding Polly’s arms so tightly they were going numb, and she couldn’t turn her head far enough to the side to look until he was standing right before her. He looked about her age but his hair was still a sandy brown, despite the lines on his serious face. Polly couldn’t place why, but he looked vaguely familiar. 

“Ah, yes, Harold, so wonderful to see you,” von Stein greeted him with a cheerful hand as though they were out on a luncheon. Harold wore thin wire spectacles, but other than that, he looked like a hitman, barrel-chested and sturdy. He also looked slightly unhinged. 

“ _Wonderful?”_ he spat at von Stein, who blinked affronted as he wiped imaginary spittle from his cheeks. Harold took another step closer, as did three men flanking von Stein, their expressions full of cautionary warning. “I find my youngest son _dead_ on his own floor, and I come to you to help me locate the killer, and you call me to _this?”_ he asked, gesturing wildly. “What even _is_ this, Niklaous?” 

“A party,” von Stein said, mildly. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

Harold was fuming, but Polly didn’t sense the grief she would have expected to be wafting off of a parent who had just discovered their dead child. _A disappointment of a son, then,_ Polly thought, _and a man who couldn’t express anything but rage, and even that came too late._

“I brought you here,” von Stein said over Harold’s near-growl, “because I already know who the killer is.” Polly’s chest tightened like she was being squeezed by ropes. “And I know where they are,” he said, slowly tugging off a pristine, white glove. “And I can deliver them to you.” 

Maybe he was bluffing, Polly thought. Maybe Tessa, Benson, and Lucy had gotten away- 

“Tell me his name,” Harold snarled, and von Stein smiled. 

“Thomas Shelby,” he said, and then he lifted his radio. 

  
  


9:35pm 

  
  


“I have a plan, but you’re really not going to like it,” Tessa whispered, her accent stronger. He noticed the more tense she was, the snappier and more American her speech became, and now, the vowels were clipped and hard. 

“Tell me,” Benson said, quietly, and then, after a few seconds of her low dialogue, he said, “No, never mind, stop telling me. That’s a bloody terrible idea.” 

Tessa looked like she was using all the steel in her spine to stand upright. “Good,” she said, “Those are my specialty."

9:35pm 

They walked through the doors side by side, they were wide enough to allow twenty men to pass through at once, but there wasn’t twenty of them. Not even ten. Just three. Faces stared at them as they marched up the lawn, frozen in action, catching the glow of the firelight, throwing dancing shadows onto the trees and illuminating the dark sky, spluttering under the raindrops. 

“Sir- what’s going on-,” a confused voice radioed, “is this a ceasefire?” 

Tommy lifted the radio to his lips, eyes shattering and blue. “Yes. Tell the men to stand down,” he said, “I’m going to fucking end this.” And he launched the radio to the ground with a sharp motion that cracked the front metal plate right off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may THINK you're ready for the next chapters, but you're not :)


	32. Light Em Up (Into the Fire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful making wishes in the dark  
> Can never tell when they've hit their mark  
> And besides, in the meantime I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart 
> 
> A constellation of tears on your lashes  
> Burn everything you love and then burn the ashes  
> In the end, everything collides  
> My childhood spat back out the monster that you see 
> 
> (From a cage I created to a Hell that Heaven made  
> Can't let go of the hatred 'cause I love the way it tastes
> 
> Take him out back!  
> I'll walk into the fire)
> 
> I'm on fire!

1916 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

_Their breathing was rough in the silence of the earth, the only sound, except for the picks. Four sets of inhales,_ tap, tap, _exhales,_ tap tap tap. 

_“Steady, men,” Freddie said, which was meant to be fortifying but mostly made Tommy want to snap that at him to stop wasting precious oxygen._ Tap tap tap. _Tommy felt the picks in his bones like they were tapping against his teeth instead of the walls, his muscles coiled so tightly it nearly hurt,_

_Tap_

_Tap_

_Tap_

_And then, from the side, from the wrong side, Fuck, they were supposed to come from the front, they had gotten the position wrong, they broke through._

9:37pm 

Tessa and Benson were peering around the corner of a wall made from pounded sheets of metal. Benson felt rather ridiculous, like a child playing detective, but his breathing was too jumpy to really sell the fantasy, his fingers twitching like trapped animals. Lucy stood behind them, cautiously, wringing her lovely hands. 

They could see the back and half a side of the stage, where it stood at the edge of the dancefloor surrounded by the long white tables lining the walls, glittering with broken crystal, the floor littered with trampled white roses. The low murmur of men’s voices came from the hangar, and their spot in the shadows was hardly conspicuous if one of them decided to turn the corner. And yet, 

“We need to get closer,” Tessa hissed, and then she was shooting past him before he could snake a hand out and yank her back. 

  
  


9:37pm 

  
  


The walk through the hangar was hyper-real, like he had swigged from his brown bottle on the lawn, everything looked crisp like a freshly pressed shirt. The German soldiers let them pass- trained soldiers, because that’s what they were, not fucking gang members, not really. The Perish wasn’t a gang. It was an army. Complete with military uniforms and weapons and composure and hatred. Tommy knew what it represented. He stared at the matching red bands each member wore, and he knew, with a sickly sort of certainty, what it all represented. The British flag lay in shreds at his feet as he and his brothers passed through the cavernous doorway. The symbolism was darkly amusing. The sight of his aunt and cousin standing on the stage in front of the band’s abandoned instruments, with soldiers gripping their arms, was not. The crystalline focus blurred red. 

_He was in a tunnel._

  
  


1916

  
  


_A man burst through the wall with a spray of dirt, the low lanterns were knocked to the side as they trickled in through the hole like rats, like they were all just rats living underground. There was only a moment for the stomach-lurching jolt of surprise, not even a second before one of them had Tommy around the neck, pummeling a blow into his stomach that knocked the wind out of him, he could hear muffled grunts and sounds of struggle beside him and then a guttural scream-_

  
  


9:38pm 

  
  


“Shit,” Tessa whispered in a hushed breath through her lips, Benson didn’t even think she knew she had done it. 

“What is it- what’s happened,” he hissed quietly, craning his neck to peer over her head where she was crouched behind a shining prototype car. Lucy was hunkered down with her head between her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. 

He saw even as she said it, 

“Arthur and John are with him,” and he realized the quiet whisper had actually been a flood of relief, her eyes were gleaming. He let out a quiet breath, 

“Not for long, unless by some miracle,” he muttered, and she pressed her lips together. 

“And who better to perform one than a god?” she responded, and Benson had to admit that, through the car windows that distorted and lengthened the glow of the fires raging outside the hangar, the slow emergence of three black silhouettes appearing like demons from the depths, gradually growing closer, was something like watching biblical events unfold before his very eyes, the brothers all with their ragged tuxedos, strutting to their deaths like the stairs to hell were covered in red carpet. 

They passed by the precise, militaristic line of soldiers flanking their path on either side, Benson could see the disdain written on the faces of the Perish, their gloved fingers resting on polished triggers. None of the brothers carried guns, not even their bladed caps, but Arthur spat at their feet, and the men whose boots were sprayed with it worked his jaw. John snorted, his stride swaggering, Tommy’s stare was fixed on von Stein as he approached, and it didn’t waver, didn’t blink, his eyes violently cold, even lit only by the remaining torches. Polly was trembling from her spot on the stage, flanked by a heavy soldier clutching a gleaming gun, Benson could see the tremble of her limbs even from their spot to the side. Michael’s eyes were wide like a trapped hare, his strong jaw jumping, breathing through his mouth. They had put two on him, and Benson thought their assumptions over the capability of their hostages was rather backwards, but it was good, after all, to be underestimated. It was what they were placing every bet on. He could hear Tessa’s quick breaths beside him, and pleaded to every celestial being known to man that he was making the right decision not to turn and flat-out run. 

  
  


9:38pm 

  
  


Tommy was coming, and Arthur, and John, and Michael couldn’t decide if he was immensely relieved or bone-chillingly terrified to see them. A strict line of men observed their journey to the stage, Michael would have estimated that the “reinforcements” had arrived with nearly three times the original amount of men that had emerged, how were there so _many_ of them, how had they all gotten past the copper’s blockade, who had fucking snitched on them, Michael’s mind was spinning with logistics like if he could answer his own questions that would get rid of the hands gripping his arms, but it was no use, because he didn’t know, 

Tommy would. Tommy would figure it out, he would wrap it all up nicely in a box with a bow on top that held a bomb inside. The family would be short with him and then accept whatever it was he did to save their skins, and he wasn’t going to _die._ He wasn’t going to die and Tommy wasn’t going to die, and his mum- 

Tommy came to a halt before the stage, the clicking of the brother’s shoes on the wooden floor sounding like fingers snapping. Michael was petrified. Von Stein stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his back to Michael and Polly. Arthur was looking up at them standing there like sacrifices before the pyre with a look on his face with the swimming grief of a child whose pet had just been slaughtered in front of it. John was seething with rage, his cheerful eyes dark. And Tommy was completely still. 

“Gentlemen. So kind of you to join us,” von Stein called, “There’s someone I want to introduce.” 

“Let them go, Stein,” Tommy said, his voice clear and unhurried. He took another step towards the stage, and two guns immediately lifted to point at him. He stopped, leisurely, and lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. Von Stein tutted. 

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” he said, smoothly, lifting a palm to gesture at the man beside him, whose presence Michael had barely registered as the soldiers had dragged him and his mother to the stage. “This is Harold Fischer.” 

Tommy’s blank eyes blinked impassively. He did not look at the man named Harold. 

“He and I are very good friends,” von Stein said, which Michael rather doubted. “He is a supporter of the cause.” That part, Michael believed. Before and to the side of him, Harold’s hands were balled into fists. Michael watched Tommy take note of it with an excruciatingly bored expression. Michael had never seen so little human emotion cross a person’s face. Von Stein continued, miffed at Tommy’s silence. He adjusted his cufflinks, and Tommy did not move. 

“I believe you know his son,” he said. “Forgive me, _knew_ his son,” he added, cruelly, and Harold’s shoulders were shaking like Polly’s. “You see, one day, when Jack Fischer was speaking of you to his father, he mentioned your sister. Said that according to that woman of yours, your sister was the most _important person in the world to you,_ or some other such drivel.” Tommy was blue eyes and black hair and stone, stone, stone. Another slow blink was the only indication he was listening at all.

“Anyway,” von Stein continued, with a dramatic sigh, “he knew of my animosity towards you and so generously provided me with that information. He has truly been quite the help, as was his son,” a frown twisted von Stein’s mouth under his smooth gray beard, “although how he remained so ignorant of his own involvement in our little drama is rather confounding. But no matter. We achieved what we set out to.” 

“What? The murder of an innocent girl?” Polly spat from Michael’s left, her voice shaking with fear and rage. Von Stein shrugged ambivalently. 

“Your nephew left me eight corpses. The debt is far from settled,” he said, meeting Tommy’s crackling eyes. “Where does a circle begin, indeed?” 

“S a lot more than eight, now, actually,” John said mildly, scratching his nose, and Arthur’s mustache twitched like a wolf’s snout. Michael watched the soldier’s eyes narrow, anger flitting across their faces. Von Stein sniffed. 

“It is no matter,” he said, “for every one of ours, I will take two of yours.” He gestured at Polly and Michael behind him, Arthur lunged towards where he stood on the stage and John held him back by the arms, guns cocked and raised, and von Stein stepped forward. 

“The death of some Gypsy whore does not concern me, but I admit I needed it done quietly. If it had not been for your,” he pointed at Tommy, who gave a very cutting, humorless smirk, “involvement, it would have gone down as nothing more than another fatal vehicle collision. Dangerous beasts, these motorcars,” he said, idly, looking around at the ones on display that circled the dancefloor, and Arthur growled low in his throat. 

“You don’t know fuck all about dangerous beasts, you piece of shit,” he bit out, John shouted his name in his ear to quiet him. Michael’s hands were growing numb from the soldier’s grips on his arms. 

“As a matter of fact, I _do,”_ he said smugly, the back of his long, slicked back hair gleaming. “You asked me if I hunt, Mr. Shelby,” he prompted Tommy, who was standing with a casual hand in his pocket like he had been caught in the middle of meandering around a park. “And it is true that I find the activity dull. I do, however, have quite a lot of money invested in fights.” 

“Boxing?” Tommy asked, apathetically, and von Stein smiled a slow, cold, lethal smile. 

“Dogs,” he said, and John’s lip curled. “A man can never have access to too many different types of savagery.” And he clapped his hands. 

From the darkness at the edge of the room, a man approached, leash in hand, and Michael heard his mother whimper. 

“I think it’s time we saw a real fight,” von Stein said, “no more of that gun nonsense. Now comes the second part of our introductions. Ripper, say hello to the Peaky fucking Blinders.” 

And the Rottweiler snarled. 

  
  


9:38pm 

  
  


“That’s Jack’s _father?”_ Tessa whispered, as Tommy stared up at the stage with an insolent expression, “fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck,”_ she muttered, “he probably thinks Tommy killed him, von Stein is using him to get Tommy out of his way, then he’s going to kill him-,”

“Who is going to kill who?” Lucy asked, her eyebrows drawn together. 

“All I really got from that sentence was “fuck” and “kill”,” Benson admitted, “you mean to tell me that little errand you ran earlier, that’s already coming back to-,” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Tessa hissed, “that’s exactly what I’m saying, and he’s going to sick that dog on the family and then he’s going to sick Fischer Sr. on Tommy-,”

  
  


9:40pm 

  
  


“Search them,” von Stein ordered, pointing at John and Arthur, who immediately began to struggle as the Perish surged forward to restrain them. John got in an uppercut to a man’s jaw, knocking him to the floor, it took four of the brown-shirted, angry soldiers to bring Arthur down, eventually one of them slammed the butt of their rifle against his head with a twinge-inducing _thunk_ and he fell to his knees. 

“Soldiers!” Tommy’s voice thundered, John froze with his fist cocked and Arthur gave the man he had brought down with him one last elbow. “Stand DOWN!”

“Tommy-,” John lisped, past a bleeding lip, still trying to tug the shoulder of his tuxedo out of a black-leathered grip, his eyes frantic, “Poll and Michael-,” 

“I _said_ stand _fucking_ down,” Tommy said, his rumbling voice flat. He raised his arms, looking like he found doing so more inconvenient than the presence of the dog that was snapping its jaws, straining against the short leash a burly German man was gripping as he led it to the stage, stopping a few paces away from Tommy. Two uniformed men began patting him down, pulling knives from his pockets like a magic show. John and Arthur were dragged backwards, Arthur’s legs kicking like a flailing calf, shouting obscenities. 

“Consider it a lesson, Mr. Shelby,” von Stein smirked, glancing at Polly, who had tears trickling down her cheeks, and Michael, who looked like he was forcing himself not to do the same. “A lesson in… biology. In the results of forgetting your base nature. Of convincing yourself that you are better than the despicable scum that is the truth, of corrupting the lives and tainting the bloodlines of the world with that of your lowly species. Pay very close attention, class,” he said, silkily, 

“tonight, we learn of monsters.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :) 
> 
> I could NOT choose a song, and I liked the parallel, but if you don't like heavier rock you don't have to listen to the AA one lmao i promise i won't make you. 
> 
> Next chapter is called Tonight Is The Night I Die <3
> 
> okay love you!!


	33. Tonight Is The Night I Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Die another day," they want me to say  
> Believe me, believe me  
> Tonight is the night I die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE U GUYS HYPED?? it is.... here. pt. one of the absolute insanity begins now

9:40pm 

  
  


“Oh my god, _”_ Lucy asked in a swift, horrified whisper. Benson put a finger to his lips, hauling her back from where she was peering past the car tire. 

Tessa’s smudged kohl made her greyish eyes huge and dark, flickering back between Benson’s face through the windows of the car that they were looking through, the scene before them framed by the door like they were at the pictures, as if what they were witnessing would ever be allowed on the silver screen. 

“We have to do something,” Tessa said, she sounded stunned like she had been hit with an electric shock. The red of her hair dripped and blended into the blood on her arm. 

“You want to get in front of that thing?” Benson demanded, fighting to keep his voice quiet. “You shoot the dog, they shoot you. We get one chance to make this work. It’s _imperative_ we wait until the right moment. I’ll tell you when I see an opening,” Benson told her, then, gentler, “It’ll be alright,” like he was trying to convince himself more than her. Tessa bit her lip like she wanted to tear it off. 

“We’re _so_ fucked,” Lucy muttered, but they ignored her. 

9:41pm 

Tommy stood alone before the stage, framed by a ring of black boots, onlookers observing the horror with vengeful expressions, Michael and Polly were frog-marched to the stagefront, the men with the dog was approaching, closer and closer until Tommy was the only thing between the snarling dog and his aunt and cousin. 

“What if the dog kills him?” Harold muttered to von Stein, who raised a graceful shoulder without looking at the man addressing him. 

“Then he will die.”

“You gave your word he was mine.”

“My apologies,” von Stein said, smoothly, not taking his eyes off of Tommy, who had a cut beside his ear that was leaking red onto the handkerchief around his neck, his black bow tie discarded. He was covered in dirt and ash, but still his eyes gleamed, headlights through the mist. “I should have said, then he will die... in the worst possible way. You cannot hope for better retribution than that.”

“And if he doesn’t, then you’ll give him to me?” Harold demanded, and received a placating nod in return. “You think he’ll manage it?”

Von Stein grinned. 

“Oh, I hope he does. The sooner he breaks, the more satisfying his downfall will be.” He scoffed. “Gypsies with automobiles, running companies. What an absolute disgrace. But no matter. They can pretend all they wish. We will bear witness to the truth, and spread it like a cure throughout the world.”

He fluttered his fingers at the man restraining Ripper, who was lunging against the straining leash, his fangs snapping, 

He demanded something in German, and the man frowned and responded with something that sounded like a number. Von Stein nodded with a content sort of expression, and then turned back to Tommy, who was radiating such tightly wound intensity it was difficult to look at him, like a sun before a supernova, his eyes glittering and face frozen, 

“Four days since he’s been fed,” von Stein said, “should be adequate. But enough from me. I’ll let you all get to know each other.” 

And he snapped his fingers. 

1914/1915/1916/1917/1918 // 1924

The memories were kicking in like a backup generator. 

_They were in the tunnels. They were in a field. They were in a trench._

_The tunnel was coming down around them, shaking and collapsing, the 179 was caught in an underground avalanche of dirt, suffocating the air out of their crushed lungs._

_Shells were falling from the sky, shrapnel shredding flesh like confetti, spraying blood and bone and gristle and brains through the air._

_Their feet slipped in the bottom of the trench, a soldier ran at him with a bayonet, Tommy shot him through the skull and left half his head swimming in the mud._

_The canary wasn’t singing, the dandelion was ground into the dirt, the dog’s barking stopped. Everything stopped._

The man’s hand released the leash. 

_There were no thoughts in the underground. No feelings. No memories. Nothingness._

_It was painfully close to bliss._

Ripper lunged, tearing the leash from his handler with such force the heavy leather slapped against the floor. Tommy braced himself, and stepped forward. 

If there were noises he couldn’t hear them, smells and tastes were gone, there was only sight, only color. And he could see everything. 

See the white gleam of the dog’s teeth against its dark gums, the snaking of the brown leather leash through the air behind it, 

And he could feel, feel everything, too, feel the muscles in his arm pull with a sharp jolt through the bullet in his shoulder as he lifted it, 

See the wild gleam of the dog’s eyes 

And the stabbing, explosive pain as its teeth sank in. 

  
  


9:43pm 

“What is he doing,” Tessa asked, her voice crackling, Lucy’s eyes were covered. 

“What he has to,” Benson said, trying to sound firm, but Tessa said, 

“ _No,”_ like she didn’t believe him, and, “no” again, “no, he’s....,” her voice trailed off, and then Benson realized, _hold on, she_ actually _doesn’t believe me,_

And then he looked closer to the scene he had been trying not to directly watch, he saw Tommy crouching down, saw the leash whipping on the ground, drips of blood landing on the dancefloor, but then- 

9:43pm 

Tommy used the dog’s momentum to catch its hold on his arm and slammed it to the ground, the pain was gone, like it had never even happened, but he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate it if he tried. There was nothing. There was nothing. 

The dog was flailing, scrambling to get up and tearing at his arm, he put his foot against its neck. The vice released for a single beat, he yanked his forearm from the dog’s teeth, he did not scream. He did not scream _because there was mud in his mouth_ because that would display weakness, he grabbed for the leather leash and wrapped it tight around the dog’s snapping muzzle, spraying him with spit and his own blood. He held on. He spoke. 

“O ushalin zhala sar o kam mangela,” he told it, 

The shadows move as the sun commands. _But we are not shadows or suns, we are beasts, of flesh and blood and bone,_

“Phaori si duje xulajenqe te keres buti,” 

No one can serve two masters. _And we are our own masters now, little wolf. We serve only ourselves. We bow to no man. We kill for no kings._

9:43pm 

The hangar was silent. Twenty men glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes, as Tommy Shelby wrapped the leash around the Rottweiller’s muzzle. The arm of his tuxedo was torn, blood seeping down from punctures and tears, but his voice was low and quiet, the only sound in the room. The dog struggled desperately, Tommy spoke, holding the dog’s eyes to his own, the deep murmur of his words intelligible, except, it would seem, to his aunt, who, for some indiscernible reason, was grinning, wide and wild, tears on her face like dripping lightning. His words flowed like water, like the wind, musical and rhythmic, almost a chant. The dog… the dog was slowing. _Slowly_ slowing, but doing so all the same, its raised hackles falling, the twisting and yanking of its head becoming less fervorous. 

Tommy spoke in a lower cadence, even and soft, lulling. The dog’s head was now shaking more like it was mildly confused, staring at Tommy’s face even with its own. 

Still, no one spoke. Men were beginning to look to their leader for cues, but von Stein was watching Tommy, who had raised his other hand and was slipping the leash from around the dog’s muzzle, with a mildly intrigued sort of face. Tommy stood, calm and collected, the heaving of his chest and breath the only indication that anything had happened at all. Ripper took a few steps back, then a few to the side, scuttling on his feet, growling low in its throat, unsure, now, unsteady, and Tommy held out a hand. 

9:43pm 

_He was thinking about a girl with hair like fire and eyes like the sea, holding her hand out, palm up, to a gleaming chestnut stallion, whose elegant head was held high and prideful. The matching shades of their hair glowed like the sun._

“Sui!” He told it, and after a moment where the dog regarded him silently, panting as hard as he was, it did. 

9:44pm 

The glances were becoming less subtle, foreheads creasing. 

“Sir-?” the man who had been holding the leash asked, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands without it. Tommy was staring at the dog, unblinking. It sat very still, liquid brown eyes locked on his. Von Stein was frowning slightly. Whispers were breaking out, low mutterings, _“Witchcraft,”_ they said, and _“black gypsy magic.”_ Their leader tutted, stroking his neat beard thoughtfully. 

“You see, gentlemen?” he said, finally tearing his eyes away to address his soldiers. “Die tiere erkennen sich gegenseitig. The beasts recognize each other.”

Polly laughed, low and smoky, like an immortal would at a child who understood nothing of the world. Tommy cleared his throat. Red was dripping steadily from the tips of his fingers. 

“Enough,” he said, his voice completely changed from the hypnotic melody of only a few moments before. “Let them go,” he said, nodding at Polly and Michael. Michael’s white face was lost like a boat at sea, like he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. “And send your men away. You and I have some business to discuss,” he told von Stein, who smirked. Beside him, Harold was turning a gradually darker shade of flushed, livid plum. 

“That’s a bit too strong a tone for a man with so many potential avenues of demise surrounding him,” von Stein said, mildly, then, “nevertheless. Leave us,” he called, and this time, his men did not so much as flicker their eyes before obeying his command, the march of their boots heavy against the empty quiet in the hangar. When they were all filtering back through the doors at the front, von Stein walked across and then off the stage, standing in front of Tommy, giving him a sweeping once-over. He clicked his tongue. Tommy blinked. It was like witnessing an art critic be displeased by a piece. 

“What is it you want?” Tommy asked, rumbling like an engine. The older man gave a thin-lipped smile. 

“What we all want, Mr. Shelby. The throne.” 

“Sir!” Came an excited voice from the side of the room, behind one of the gleaming black cars. “Look!” The tone of the voice was bordering on glee, but the atmosphere of the room grew colder like the winter wind was seeping through the walls. From behind one of the displayed automobiles, three brown-shirted men pulled three others, a slim woman with short black hair that shimmered as she trembled, a tall man with soft brown eyes and a scar across his cheek, whose long limbs moved with a soldier’s precision, and another woman, the smallest of them, wearing a velvet gown in an emerald so deep it was nearly black, her tumbling mane a bright copper even in the low light. 

“More, sir!” the man holding the last hostage said, in choppy English, she winced at his grip on her arm, which was wrapped with a strip of red cloth like she was a member of their own organization. Von Stein grinned triumphantly, and Tommy went completely pale, his lips parting in shock. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he mouthed, silently, and then, aloud but only barely, “Tessa.” 

The girl smiled, and it made her look younger, took away the dirt streaked across her chest and arms, the dark, dried blood gathered in the crook of her elbow under the makeshift bandage. But the smile was brittle and hollow. 

“Hi, baby,” she said, to Tommy, whose chest was rising and falling sharply with silent inhales, the marble composure cracking like he had been hit with a sledgehammer, “I’ve come to rescue you.” 

9:45pm 

Even von Stein’s cackle was distinguished. 

“Oh, I _love_ love,” he preened, his fingers steepled together contentedly. “Nothing makes one more irrideemably _stupid.”_ He snapped again. From the corner he had retreated to, Ripper flinched. Tessa’s eyes flickered to the dog, and her lovely face darkened, the pout of her full lips hidden as she pressed them together. The uniformed soldier’s grip squeezed as he led her forward first, the others following across the floor with Lucy and Benson along for the ride. Benson seemed repulsed by the German man’s proximity, and Lucy’s dark eyes were wide and skittering about the room like she was looking for ways to escape. Tessa’s head snapped to the side as she stared at the stocky man who had her in his grip. Her eyes flashed down to his meaty hand on her upper arm, wrapped around the strip of fabric. 

“Do you mind taking your hands off me? I’ve been bloody shot, for Christ’s sake-,” but her words were cut off as the man lifted his other arm and backhanded her sharply across the face, the sound of the strike ringing like a shot. Tessa gasped in pain, but did not cry out, staggering a bit. Tommy’s hands balled into clenched, shaking fists. He man’s fingers were tightening on her arm, new, vibrantly red blood swelling through the cloth. Tessa tilted her chin and looked him in the face, his beefy forehead lowered and jaw stuck out. 

“I’m a third your size, you fucking water buffalo. What the fuck am I going to do? Where am I going to go?” she bit, and the man gave a dismissive grunt, looking to von Stein, who gave a simpering smirk. 

“My deepest apologies, darling, but we must take all precautions, you understand.” He waved an unconcerned hand. “Put them with the others.” 

The soldiers marched their conquests across the floor and past Tommy, whose wide, icy eyes did not leave Tessa for a moment, crackling with tension like the light flashing across the sky past the roof of the hangar. His head was shaking very faintly, like he did not want to accept what he was witnessing. 

“Let them fucking go,” Tommy said, to von Stein, “You can have me, I’ll do what you want. Whatever you want, just let them fucking go,” he told him, and von Stein’s glimmering, dark eyes closed like he was sinking into a hot bath. 

“Ah,” he said. “Begging, at last. But no need to trouble yourself, Mr. Shelby. You _will_ do whatever I want. Make no mistake.” He turned back to Harold, whose sturdy hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Polly was whispering a quiet prayer under her breath, her words quick and soft like raindrops. Michael stood so still it was as if he was attempting to play dead, Lucy had her eyes squeezed shut, Tommy was staring at Tessa like he would never see her again. 

“Harold, be my guest,” von Stein said, and Harold took out a gun from the back of his waistband. Tommy didn’t flinch, but Tessa did, calling, “No!” like she hoped she could command it to stop, and shockingly, von Stein repeated her. 

“No,” he said, smoothly. “No guns.” He flicked two fingers at one of the remaining soldiers, one of the men restraining Michael. “Take it,” he said, and the man marched purposefully forward. 

“What?” Harold spluttered, “No- that wasn’t the deal, you said I could have him-,” 

“I did,” von Stein said, calmly. “And you can. He’s right there. You were a boxer before you enlisted, isn’t that right, Mr. Fischer?”

“Yes,” Harold replied, through gritted teeth. Tommy huffed a humorless laugh, muttered a dry “Of fucking course,” under his breath. Harold’s face twitched, his nose wrinkling briefly. 

“You killed my son,” he accused Tommy, a vengeful gleam in his eyes. Tommy blinked leisurely. 

“I’ve killed lots of men’s sons,” he said, slowly. “Gets hard to keep track sometimes.” Harold began stalking down the stage. “Oh, no,” Tommy said, as if he was realizing something, “No, that’s right. I remember, now. _Your_ son was the one that got my sister killed.” Harold came to a growling stop inches from Tommy’s face, his skin mottled and angry against the paleness of Tommy’s cheeks, his eyes so light they didn’t look like they had a color at all, shadows cutting into the deep angles like he was of the darkness, and it was seeping out of him. 

“ _You_ got your sister killed,” the blonde man spat. “Jack told me he offered you terms. An apology or retribution. He was always a spineless kid, that one, never very good at negotiating. But even _you,”_ he said, jabbing Tommy hard in the chest, “know that he had _every_ right, after what that redheaded _slut_ _-,”_

Tommy’s face turned very deliberately from where he had been watching von Stein to look at Harold’s invasive face instead, 

“You won’t speak about her like that.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

“Is that a real question?” Tommy retorted, flatly, and Harold grunted. “Because I can give you a _very_ real answer.”

“So clever,” he hissed, “they always say how you’re so _clever._ I guess you just weren’t clever _enough,”_ there was another jab, Tommy’s face was burning with nothing, nothing, nothing, “to put aside your pride. Not even for your _little sister.”_

And he waited for Tommy to crack, the room waited for Tommy to crack. Instead, he sent a momentary, guilty look to Polly, whose lips were pursed, and Michael, whose brows were furrowed confusedly. 

“Didn’t tell them about that, did you?” Harold cajoled, Tommy’s expression was witheringly apathetic. 

“This doesn’t need to happen,” he said, “Your death doesn’t have to be here, to entertain some fucking fascist. You could just fuckin’ walk. Just walk away, eh?” 

“Why are you so sure,” Harold asked, “that I will be the one who dies?” 

Tommy sighed, shortly. “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Fischer,” he said, heavily, “I’m not sure I fucking can.”

  
  


9:47pm 

Von Stein clapped his bare hands together loudly, the sound nearly the same as the slap across Tessa’s cheek. She realized she could hardly remember the things that were happening, again, it was like when Benson had told her that Tommy shot her, she knew he was right, but she couldn’t say _how-,_

“Enough talk,” von Stein barked, “I expected dinner and a show, Mr. Shelby,” he said, “So far you have only delivered on one of those fronts.” He pointed at Tessa, and her chest froze. “Bring her to me. But search her first, there’s a gun on her hip,” he said, and Tessa and Benson’s eyes locked in terror, _the plan, fuck, how could they execute the plan without the gun,_

“Fight,” von Stein said, “or I will personally shoot her in the head.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is called Blood // Water and it is........ its a lot.


	34. Blood // Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll never get free  
> Lamb to the slaughter  
> The price of your greed is your son and your daughter  
> Whatcha gon do when there's blood in the water?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME TO A FINALE THAT IS LITERALLY SEVEN THOUSAND YEARS IN THE MAKING  
> here we are!! you made it! we made it we did it and I am so so so excited for you to read it! 
> 
> that being said, WHOO BOY IS THIS INTENSE, so if you have an aversion to explicit violence, gore, or PTSD, you're welcome to skip it and I'll catch you up <3

9:47pm 

  
  


Fischer didn’t lunge like the dog had. He prowled around a bit, like an angry lion, with his fists in front of his face. Tommy stood still, wishing he could at least take off his jacket, but the white undershirt was surely soaked through with blood by now, and showing weakness meant having a weakness, after all. 

1914 

_“Shoot him,” the Captain told Tommy, “We don’t have time for deserters.”_

_“His brother died in front of him-,” Tommy said, the man was shaking in his rain-soaked boots._

_“‘His_ _brother died in front of him,_ Sir’”, the _Captain corrected. “Feed him a bullet and then get back to camp, or you’ll eat one too.”_

_Rodger, that was the man’s name. Recently he had been trying to grow a pitiful excuse of a mustache. The Captain left them in the cold, wet woods._

_“He’ll ask me for a body,” Tommy said, and Rodger nodded very shakily._

_“You ever done this before?” he asked, and Tommy hesitated before he shook his head._ There was a man with a horse in an alley. _“This how you pictured it?”_

_“No.”_

_“Yeah. I guess we all want to hate the first person we kill and love the first person we fuck,” Rodger said, “But life don’t always work that way.”_

_“If we could choose who we hated and loved, the world would be a simpler place.”_

_“Aye,” Rodger told him, leaning against the slick trunk of a tree. “Can’t choose that. But we can choose what we do with it.”_

_“You’re smart for a deserter. You get caught on purpose?” Tommy asked. Back then, he didn’t understand it._

_“Sorry it had to be you.”_

_“I’m not,” Tommy said. “First time mercy. Maybe it’ll make me lucky, send me home.”_

_“Captain always said mercy gets you killed,” Rodger said, smiling, somehow. “I hope you get to go back.”_

_“You too, Rodger. Say hello to them down there for me, eh?” Tommy joked, and Rodger laughed, and Tommy fired, blinking blinking blinking his eyes, which were wet like the sky._

9:47pm 

So he kept the fucking jacket on, might not have been able to get his arm out of it, anyway. A mangled arm and a bullet lodged in his back, fucking ridiculous, but he fought it every second, every moment, beating the waves of pain back with fists of sheer will. And an ex-boxer, who had also served, as the shimmering, deadly cherry on top, and the memories were flooding in like water through a crack in a dam, 

1922 

There was a dark farmhouse with darker shapes moving around it, inside it, possessing it like ghosts. He was alone, crouching in the dry weeds of a ditch, caught in a mental debate, _Ada could be anywhere, they have your sister, you need to go find your sister,_ a voice reminded him, and then, from the farthest window on the top story, came a peircing, hair-raising scream, and he was half running to the house before he could stop his legs from moving. 

1924 

He was holding his sister’s face in his hands. 

She wasn’t breathing. She wouldn’t breathe, no matter how many times he told her to. He vomited into the bushes and had to lean over to do it, to make sure he didn’t get any on her, because she would fucking skin him for it when she woke up. He just needed her to open her eyes and wake up, just wake up,

“Just this once, Ada,” he told her. “Just this once, do as I say. Please, Ada,” but she was a Shelby, and they never fucking listened, did they? No one ever fucking listened to him. And now she was dead, she was dead because of him, because of Fischer, and Tommy wanted to tear him apart, to carve his flesh from his bones until there was nothing, nothing, nothing left-

_He was in a tunnel._

  
  


9:47pm 

  
  


Fischer swung. Normally, Tommy would’ve let it land, let him get overconfident, but he didn’t have the stamina to engage that particular tactic, so he jerked his head back to dodge it, but Fischer only grinned slightly, hands returned to their position. An experiment, then, a test. There was a gun pressed to Tessa’s temple. He didn’t have time for fucking tests. He charged forward, as low and quick as he could, and took out Fischer’s legs. That’s the thing about boxers, only think with their fists. There was a gun pressed to Tessa’s temple and there was- _dirt in his mouth, in his lungs,_ -pain shooting through his ribs as Fischer’s elbow collided with his side, Tommy was struggling against his weight, trying to get the upper hand, another blow landed hard across his abdomen and he jerked his head backwards, colliding the top of his skull with Fischer’s chin, he screamed as he bit down through his own lip and Tommy rolled, 

- _there were arms around his neck, choking him, he ducked down to try to throw them off, forgetting the low ceiling, smashing the man’s head against it instead-,_

But Fischer was already standing, aiming a kick at Tommy that collided with his shin instead of his back as he flung himself away from it, the bullet wound in his back was screaming in pain, pain so hot and violent it felt like it was melting him, a candle of agony. 

_“TOMMY!” Freddie shouted, throwing himself in front of the bullet’s path, a fuzzy blur in the hazy shadows,_

There was a glinting barrel of a gun pressed to the tousled waves of Tessa’s hair, it was hard to move, his limbs weren’t following his commands, he drug himself to his knees and Fischer’s fist collided with his jaw, and he hit like a fighter, all right, Tommy went down- 

_Down the rickety ladder, descending into darkness, the air growing thicker and heavier, like hands around his neck, like arms around his throat-,_

Fischer aimed another hit, Tommy caught his arm and yanked, 

_He was suffocating, he was dying, and then something went_ snick _like a taut string being cut and he was gone, and something else took his place._

Tommy struck at the momentary exposure of his straining neck, lunged forward, and bit down. 

9:48pm 

Fischer screamed. Tommy could feel it, the vibration of it through the man’s vocal chords, as blood gushed into his mouth, slick and tangy, _what’s that line about animals and corners?_ The darkness that had taken over him asked, in his voice, as he ripped with his teeth, with all his might, tearing through Fischer’s trachea, warm and tough and raw. The man’s screams were warbling and gurgling with blood, but he didn’t stop, it didn’t seem like he _could_ stop, clawing at his neck on the ground, but Tommy could make him. Tommy approached like he was being drug forward and Fischer scrambled backwards, leaving frantic, bloody streaks from his hands on the floor, red bubbling from his neck down the front of his gray suit. He turned away from Tommy to try to stand, to try to run, 

_The arms around the neck were his arms, the neck was another man’s._ It’s you or them, _the voice said,_ that’s the only choice, that’s all it is, but that wasn’t really true, he was thinking about Ada, with blood dripping down from her head, slumped over the passenger side of the crashed motorcar, 

_He was in a tunnel, and everything smelled of dirt and earth and copper,_

_He was holding his little sister,_

He brought his foot down on the back of Fischer’s neck, and the _snap_ sounded like justice. 

  
  


9:49pm 

  
  


Tessa felt that the idiom “like trying to stop watching a train wreck” was generally overused. As were most of them, she supposed, but she remembered being eleven and actually witnessing a steam engine collide with an oncoming coal train, and it truly had been impossible to tear her eyes from, but not in the lighthearted way it was generally spoken of. The coal train had caught, the combustible boilers of the steam engine had blown a man’s arm clean off, and he had been holding it in his other hand like an odd branch. She could still remember the look on his face as the medics swarmed the platform, like he couldn’t remember how he had gotten to where he was, and she understood him, now. 

The gun felt heavy against her temple like it was dragging her down, weighing on her. 

Bright crimson dripped from Tommy’s chin like he had been drinking it from a river. 

Tessa did not want to be looking, and she couldn’t stop, and it wasn’t funny at all, really. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, but her veins felt cold. Everything felt cold, and the huge room was silent again like an empty, echoing cathedral, where sacrifices had been made on altars to old gods that sent floods and fires if they were starved of blood. For once, von Stein was speechless. Fischer’s body jerked slightly on the floor, a last spasm of forgotten neurons, and then lay still, a puddle of blood growing under his neck. 

The leader’s black hair was still slick and neat, not a strand out of place. He looked pristine, especially against the backdrop of Polly, Michael, and Benson, all of whom looked like they _had_ actually been mauled by the dog. Von Stein leveled the pistol at Tommy, and Tessa’s fingers twitched, twisting around her last hope. This it. This was her opening, she could- 

But Tommy would die. The gun between his eyes was held steady, but he was trembling, his limbs shaking with exhaustion. He did not blink at the weapon aimed at him, all black and white and red red red red, except for the electric blue of his eyes, so light they were almost clear, and yet darker than Polly’s, darker than the fascist on the stage, nothing but dry ice and rage. For a millisecond, Tessa was glad that it wasn’t her he was looking at like that, and then suddenly it was, as he turned his gaze to her, as the gun cocked, and she made a choice. 

She dogged past von Stein’s preoccupied shoulder, and threw herself in front of Tommy. 

“Don’t!” She begged, her palm raised, the other hand behind her back, “ _PLEASE don’t shoot!”_

_9:47pm_

_The soldier was holding her arm, and the pain was bright like the sun, but her hands were free. Benson stood beside her, his peaky cap removed, and she looked down at his hands. Benson slipped it from where he was holding it behind his back, ready to slit the wrists of the man holding him, and passed to her right before a soldier stalked over, knelt down, and tore the slit of her dress up to her hip, black lace of her undergarments exposed. The lack of patience on Tommy’s face was becoming steadily more dangerous, like a brewing storm. Tessa stuffed the cap into the folds of velvet, and let herself be led before the stage._

9:49pm 

She passed the cap to Tommy, felt his hand close over hers for only a fraction of a second, the moment stretched and elongated, like time had slowed. Von Stein was grinning a horrible, twisted grin, and then someone’s voice shouted, louder than Tessa had ever heard her speak, 

“DON’T SHOOT! PLEASE DON’T SHOOT, SHE’S PREGNANT!” Lucy screamed, all the eyes in the room slid to her, 

And Von Stein turned to where she was held by a brown-shirted captor, and Tommy leapt forward, seizing his opening, and then the words seemed to sink in, like he hadn’t really heard them at first, and he started, double-taking at Tessa, a moment of hesitation, just as von Stein’s eyes travelled back in front of him, but Tommy was already there, lifting the razor in the brim, von Stein fired, and Tessa dropped to the floor. 

  
  


9:50pm 

Uniformed men swarmed into the room, deadly weapons raised, not brown shirts or black handkerchiefs but shiny black boots and shiny brass buttons and authority,

On the floor, the cap's peak flashed silver, again, and again, and again, silver and red. Von Stein screamed, Tessa did not move, hair splayed across the floor like flames, like- 

the Perish soldiers were aiming their guns at the newcomers, who were shouting orders, “ _PLACE YOUR WEAPONS AT YOUR FEET OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE,_

_I REPEAT, WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”_

They were pulling Tommy away from the curled body of von Stein, alive or dead, cut to ribbons like a slashed painting, leaking and splattering red, it took four men to pull Tommy off, eventually it was Arthur, sprinting over amidst the confusion and screaming a name in his face, not Tommy’s name, that got him to snap around and run to where another body was crumpled on the floor, her head in Polly’s lap, Tommy threw an elbow into the nose of a copper trying to restrain him, bellowing, spitting, seething, nearly foaming at the mouth, Polly was speaking but he did not hear her, 

“EVERYONE GET THE _FUCK AWAY_ FROM HER! I SAID GET THE FUCK AWAY!” and even Scotland Yard or Special Branch or whoever the other men were listened, backing up, maybe because of the look in his eyes, maybe because of the blood sprayed across his face, maybe because of the convulsing body on the floor behind him, 

He took her face in his hands, already saying her name, scouring her skin, her eyes were closed, 

9:51pm 

“Bullet hit the necklace,” Polly was saying, in an undertone, the diamonds at her throat were shattered- “Must have ricochet-,” 

“Tessa, wake up,” Tommy was saying, over and over like he had brought the razor down on von Stein, “please, love, please wake up, please wake up, come back to me, Lolo, please come back to me-,” 

Lucy’s hands were pressed to her mouth, Benson hovered, half crouching, Polly was gripping Michael’s hand, pointing with the other. 

“She’s breathing, look-,”

“Tessa, please, love, please,” Tommy whispered, his forehead lowered to hers, “Come back to me,” he pleaded, and her eyes opened. 

  
  


9:52pm 

  
  


“Fuck,” Tommy was saying, choking on air, “ _Fuck,”_ again, he was swimming in her vision,  
“She’s… she’s...” 

“She’s alive, love, she's alive, it’s all right,” said Polly, but Tessa couldn’t see her at all, could only see red, blood blood blood, everywhere,

“She’s fucking _pregnant?”_ Tommy finished, and Tessa was fading out, black edging in on the dripping crimson smeared across his face, his chest, the white shirt of the tuxedo soaked in it, _I’m dying in the arms of the devil,_ Tessa thought, and then she was swallowed by the shadows, diving off the deep end into the darkness. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolutely endless love for you all.  
> and I know this shouldn't matter, but we're pretty close to being the most commented on peaky fic on this site, which is........ man. I can't even express how grateful I am to you guys. you are the greatest readers I could ever, ever ask for <3  
> hope this was worth the wait, notice how I very kindly did not make it a cliffhanger lmao


	35. REIGN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is this ghost hanging onto my shoulder  
> Dragging me down to the cold  
> I feel it bringing me down, I'm not over the past  
> I just grasp on and hold  
> Subconsciously my mind is living in doubt  
> Am I a selfish human? I'm thinking out loud  
> Is there a hopeful future waiting around?  
> Am I a hopeless creature spinning around?
> 
> I'm not ready for this life  
> I'm stuck here petrified  
> Can't get it off my mind  
> Most of my life was in denial  
> All these feelings persevere  
> This ghost is always haunting me, haunting me  
> I'm better off conquering  
> And let it reign

1906

  
  


There had always been something about fire. As a child, fires had roared under the five handsome mantles at Addison manor. Tessa’s room had even had its own, and she would sit cross-legged in front of it, letting the glow warm her freckled skin. The freckles had faded, but the fascination stayed, despite learning from experience what happened if she strayed too close. There was a purity to it, a raw sort of energy that she envied. Fire never had to pretend to be docile, never had to curtsy or sew or play the piano. It was not forgiving or meek or placating. 

“Women are water,” her nanny had once said. “Meant to soothe and nurture.” Tessa had made a face, staring down at her needlework, wondering if she would be chastised if she asked to go to the stables. Her brother was down there, getting to break in his new saddle, a birthday present from their father. She _hated_ needlework. 

“Can I go see the horses?” she asked, and her nanny tutted. 

“You’re not listening to me, Tessa,” she chided, and Tessa shook her head. 

“No,” she had admitted. “And if I’m not listening, your lecture won’t do any good, and you’ll have wasted your whole afternoon, so really, we might as well go.” 

She knew it was a toss-up whether her nanny would smile or berate her. She waited. The nanny didn’t quite grin, but she didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, either. She sighed, defeated. 

“Come along, then,” she said, with a resigned voice, and Tessa beamed. 

  
  


1924

  
  


11:09pm

  
  


The hospital smelled the same as it had the last time she had been there, harsh and offensively clinical in her nostrils. Polly hated them, same as Tommy. You could find most of what you needed in the woods, anyway, if only you knew where to look. She remembered the stinging smell like the slice of a knife across soft skin and she remembered seeing Tessa, that first time, because one of the boys had made a comment about her. She couldn’t even remember which one, now, but she knew it had been an attempt to lighten the heavy mood, as they marched down the tiled halls to Tommy’s room. But her nephews weren’t with her now, where she was seated on a rickety chair under the low haze of hanging lights with only Benson for company. Well, Benson and that conniving Chinese girl. Polly couldn’t even look at her. What she was doing _breathing,_ much less what she was doing _there,_ was beyond Polly’s comprehension, but apparently someone had said she was not to be harmed, and Polly wasn’t much up for cold blooded killing at the moment so there they sat, in complete silence, Benson’s long leg bouncing in a staccato rhythm where it rested over his knee. A nurse with curly brown hair pinned up under her white cap emerged from the room to their side, closing the door softly behind her. Benson perked up like a bird hound pointing at a pheasant, Lucy lifted her face from her hands. 

“Tessa ees sleeping,” the nurse addressed Polly with a heavy Scottish drawl, but she was staring down at her shoes as she did. Tessa had not been sleeping when they had arrived, having woken up and immediately begun to hyperventilate during the drive to the hospital, Tommy reaching a hand back to her where she had been lying on Polly’s lap in the back seat, taking a turn so sharply Polly’s stomach seemed to be left behind her body. Then Tommy had bloody _dropped them off,_ muttering something about having business in Birmingham, and Polly didn’t like the way it sounded. She didn’t like that they had taken Michael with them. So what the nurse really meant was that meant Tessa was sedated. The other woman was still looking at her shoes, so Polly glanced at them too, the leather was cheaply made, the stitching worn. Polly’s own heels likely cost as much as the entire hall. She wondered if perhaps she would have been happier in living in shabby clothes, tending to the wounded in a ward so white and pristine it made her slightly dizzy, and she thought not. Her hundred and fifteen pound dress of silver flashed as she stood like the glimmer of fish scales, the sparkle of a coin, and suddenly she remembered what her attire represented with renewed appreciation. Not just money, but the ability to decide for herself. Instead of being forced into a life a seamstress, or another beggar on the street, or a nurse like the one before her, who was wringing her hands in a way that set Polly’s nerves on edge. Polly considered briefly what the other woman must think of her, of their family, and then she looked back down at her shoes and was reminded that it didn’t much matter. Polly had choices. She could pick what she wanted like she had her expensive heels, without sparing a glance at the price. Polly had been given choices, unlike the girl before her, and she had made them. She just wasn’t sure freedom was really all it was cracked up to be, if she kept ending up back in these same whitewashed halls, paying for it with blood. 

“Take me to her,” she commanded, and the nurse nodded, and perhaps it wasn’t freedom, after all. Perhaps it was power. Perhaps Tommy had been right all along, and everything _was_ really about power. How odd it was that the greatest threat to the continuation of her rule would be the girl lying on the thin cot, looking small and pale and defenseless. Polly’s heart clenched as she drew closer, glad that the money had done at least one good deed and allowed them to ensure a private room. She didn’t want strangers disturbing Tessa, not when she looked so fragile, like an angel who had just crashed onto their miserable earth, all broken wings and blue veins trailing across her closed eyelids. Polly was reminded of the day her brother had broken Tommy’s arm, of how _little_ he had looked, clutching it to his chest, curled up in a ball on the floor of his room. 

“No one enters without my permission,” Polly told the nurse, whose curls bounced as she nodded. 

“What about them, miss?” the woman asked, looking through the window of the door to the hallway where Benson and Lucy were waiting. 

“The man may visit. Have the woman escorted to the door, and make sure she walks through it.” Polly commanded, and she had the sudden realization that everything _was_ about power, every single thing, except love. When we love we are weak and open, pinched and poked by the stinging feeling, and she thought about Tommy’s face when he turned and saw Tessa lying on the floor, and with this realization came another. That there were few things she wouldn’t do to see Tommy smile again, to watch him hold his child, and if that meant succeeding to the little redhead lying on the cold white sheets, then that was exactly what she would do, no matter if swallowing her pride felt like a thorn in her heart. She smoothed a strand of hair behind Tessa’s ear. There was a spray of blood across the ivory of her cheek, little red droplets like deadly freckles, and Polly saw, for a moment, a much smaller Tessa running down a sloping gravel path to a pair of stables, arms in the air, giggling madly, all crooked teeth and brown dots on pale skin, stockings slipping down her knees. 

“We are of the fire, lolo chavi, and so we do not perish by the flames,” she said, “so it seems he cannot melt you, after all.” She looked at the kindly nurse, round cheeks and twinkly eyes, and asked the darkest question. 

“The baby?” she said, and Missy shook her head. 

“Ees too soon ta tell, madam,” and Polly’s eyes closed. 

  
  


9:54pm

  
  


“I am arresting you for arson, murder, theft-,” 

“Oi! We did’n fuckin’ _steal_ nothin!” Arthur said, past a bloody lip, a copper’s fist had hit it, purposefully or accidental, as they tried to subdue him. Tommy rather doubted that his brother’s concussion would help with his violent outbursts, but he was one to talk, really, the blood was streaked across his teeth and tongue and he couldn’t spit it out, two officers were grabbing either side of his shoulders in grips that made the bullet in his back throb with a hot, stabbing pain, 

“Arthur, stop fucking talking-,” John said, still slightly cross-eyed but letting the officers restrain him with the patience of an expert, Tommy couldn’t count how many times they had drug John in, Tessa was still on the floor, unconscious, the rage blurred his vision again, 

“You have been found in the possession of an aircraft abducted from the British-,” 

“I need to make a telephone call,” Tommy interjected, because Tessa was bleeding on the fucking floor, the shards of the diamonds from her throat twinkling around her out of the corner of his eye like glass, like fallen stars, 

“You will be granted one two minute call from inside our facility,” the uniformed man now attempting to cuff Tommy was saying, Tommy yanked his wrist from his grip and bit back a comment about his ridiculous hat. He should’ve fucking known it was the Yard, they reeked pompous certainty. 

“You’ve got a line for everything, eh?” Tommy asked, in his face, _Tessa was bleeding on the floor, “_ tell me this, then, mate. Who’m I calling?” 

The man blinked, twitched his mustache. “It is of no consequence who-,” 

“Yeah? No consequence?” Tommy asked, with a dry scoff. “So do you don’t want to know, then? Your boss, whoever sent you, they won’t want to know?” 

Both the man and his tall cap were silent. Tommy did not move a muscle, inches from his watery eyes. 

“It’s Winston Churchill,” he said, flatly, the man made a face close to a wince. “And I’m going to go speak with him, and you won’t shoot me. Because you would’ve done. Because someone fucking sent you, and they’ll be none too pleased if you defy your orders to bring me back alive. Am I wrong?” Tommy asked, a muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. “Yeah,” Tommy said, sharply. “I didn’t think so. Tell your men to wait, and if any of you fuckers touch her,” he told them, pointing at Tessa, _bleeding on the floor,_ “I’ve a hundred angry Jews swarming like hornets outside this hangar, and you won’t like the way they sting.” He shoved the officer before him back with his good arm, the left had begun to ache from the wound in his shoulder and he couldn’t lift it, “And don’t worry, officer. I’ll make sure to keep it under two minutes.” 

  
  


1908

  
  


A door slammed with the force of rage that rippled down the halls and seemed to raise the hairs of the thick, plush carpet. The huge rooms were otherwise empty and silent, one would hardly even notice a small girl curled up by the fireplace at the end of a hall, her knees drawn up to her chin, except by the sound of her deep, slow breathing. Her eyes were closed, but flickered under her at the sound of another door closing, softer, this time, then footsteps. She kept her lids shut. Her brother sat down beside her. 

“They’re fighting again,” she said, and she could feel his slight nod travel down his arm where it was pressed to hers, cool against her warm skin. 

“Gets worse when you’re at school,” Sam said. He had private tutors during the day, but Tessa’s parents had sent her to primary, mostly as a punishment for discovering she had been tricking her nanny into letting her visit the stables instead of practicing violin. 

“Can you stop loving someone?” Tessa asked, and Sam, with all the wisdom and knowledge of a fifteen year old boy, shrugged. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, “think it’s kind of like to a… a scar.” 

“A scar?” she asked, tracing the one on her palm from the fire, the time she had reached out to touch it. 

“Yes, well, you know. Depends how deep it goes. Whether or not it fades.” He shifted a bit beside her. She frowned. 

“Well, I’ll love you forever,” she said, and he grinned a bit, the glow of the fire catching on his red hair, and raised voices echoed down the hall. 

“Why are they fighting?” Tessa asked, and her brother’s lips thinned and he looked away, which was what he did when he was about to lie. “You know, don’t you? You have to tell me if you know-,” 

“Tess,” he said, and he sounded sad, but she couldn’t have guessed why, maybe he didn’t like it when they fought, either, but nothing could have prepared her for his next words, or the look in his eyes when he said them. “Mum wants to take you to America.” 

  
  


1924 

  
  


10:05pm 

They were rushing through the dark interior of the hangar and out the bay doors at the front, Tommy had Tessa in his arms and was barking orders at them, in full General mode, and Arthur’s ears were whining so loudly he only caught every other word, 

“Address,” was one of them, “Birmingham” was another, but John seemed to understand, as was nodding and running to the telephone in the cubicle on the wall by the offices that Tommy had just used. One call, it had taken, Arthur had no idea what he had said, but he had put the receiver down and stood, counting out loud, as the baffled officers watched with pursed lips and furrowed brows, the remaining members of the Perish long gone, von Stein drug off between two uniformed men, slumped and bloody, and then the phone rang. 

“That’ll be for you,” Tommy had said, unconcernedly, and that was that, and now Tommy was lifting Tessa into the backseat of a car, Polly cradling her head in her lap, Michael, Benson, Lucy, and Arthur himself crammed into another, John was sprinting back through the doors as they circled to meet him at the front. Arthur only really knew about half of what was going on, but he reckoned he still looked better than Tommy, who had red splattered across his cheek like one of those paintings hung on the wall at Arrow House, blood running down the sides of his mouth and chin and the hard corner of his jaw, 

“If the coppers lift you, pull up your masks and pull out your fucking guns!” He directed, with a jerk of his hand, which was holding a pistol Arthur recognized as Tessa’s because he had been the one who bought it for her, he thought a woman with an eye like that should have something better than a pea shooter, John and Michael whooped as Tommy closed the door behind the whipping silver of Polly’s skirt, 

“Stay with us ‘till the hospital, then the men are going to Birmingham!” Came the next command, 

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major!” John tapped the roof twice with his fist, and then they were speeding after Tommy, with a skid of tyres on the dirt drive before the burning buildings, the hangar hulking in the shadows between the blaze like a giant beast, tracks from the fleeing Perish vans cutting dark lines down the road and into the trees.

  
  


2:05am

  
  


There were people speaking, but the voices were overlapping like waves, fading in and out of each other. She felt, for a moment, like she was floating, and then it was gone and she was _hurting_ instead, everywhere, she couldn’t even pinpoint the pain, 

“She’s waking up,” someone or something was saying, for a moment, it sounded like her mother, “Go get Missy.” 

_She was standing beside a black car tipped onto its side, two wheels still spinning, there was a man, terrifying and dark and covered in blood, and suddenly, there were flames-_

_There was a decrepit house surrounded by scraggly trees and overgrown weeds, she was looking up at the peeling white paint, she struck a match and noticed that the bodies were gone-_

_“Tessa, I need you to visit a patient for me,” her father was saying, she was walking to the man’s bedside, his blue eyes were snapping open,_

_She was on a train with her mother in France,_

_She had a gun to her temple and was watching him rip out a man’s throat with his teeth, there was so much red it felt like it was dripping down her lungs, choking her,_

“Get tha oxygen,” a voice said, 

_“I’ve been in love with you since the night we met,” he said, “It’s all dark except you. You asked me what I am. I’ve never met anyone like you. Marry me. Lolo, lolo, lolo,” he said, until that was the only word there was, red red red,_

She could breathe again. 

  
  


9:55pm 

“Mr. Churchill, I’m sorry to disturb you. There are some men here who are proving to be a bit of an issue for me and me brothers, and you see, sir, the thing is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I respect you, and your intelligence, so I believe you will. On the day we discussed you granting me the Bristol that is now a smoking wreck, you mentioned to me that the British Army could not be seen to have any involvement. Perhaps there are those in congress who wish to avoid taking a public stance against this threat, but no matter the reason, it would be quite the spectacle if one possessed proof of your aid in this mission. Proof, like a renewed serial number that marks the plane as active. I can recite it for you if you would like, sir, but the fascists shot my fiancé and frankly, I don’t have much time. If you could put in word to call off Scotland Yard, I would be very grateful. Also, I’ve considered your offer, and would like to accept, given one condition. I’ve developed a bit of an interest in politics, you see…” 

  
  


1:05am 

  
  


John was driving, which in itself spoke to their current state, because they never let him drive if they could help it, but Arthur kept forgetting where he was and Tommy had asked, which John hadn’t really considered at the time, too caught up in the adrenaline and chaos of getting Tessa to the hospital, but was now, given a bit more thought, causing him some concern. Especially when he went over a bump in the road and Tommy hissed so loudly through his teeth that John could hear it even over the rumble of the straining engine. Michael was blinking beside Arthur in the backseat, like he couldn’t believe he had been given permission to come along, but they had snuck him into the car while Polly was by Tessa’s side. She would castrate them for it later, but Tommy had left Benson with Tessa and said they were a man short, so for now, Michael would do. John glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see Tommy pulling a brown bottle from the glove compartment. 

“You still on that, Tom?” John asked, and his brother looked young again, under the blood, perhaps even defensively guilty, but he hadn’t when he ripped out a man’s throat, and John thought for a moment about how that was probably fucked, Tommy tipped his head back, the little bottle chugging faintly. John hadn’t known. He thought Tessa probably did, and wondered when the idea of someone knowing things about Tommy had stopped being strage. 

“Got shot,” he said, instead of answering, or as an answer. John rounded a dark corner, Tommy was tugging off the black tuxedo jacket with the muscle of his jaw flexing, the white shirt clung to it, the back soaked and dark. 

“Jesus,” John said, and Tommy grunted in response. 

“You have any cocaine?” 

“What?” John said, which he thought was rather fair, given that he had just watched Tommy take a pull of poppy that would have knocked a horse over. 

“Cocaine?” Tommy repeated, blinking with his eyebrows raised, like John was being dull, John stared at him for so many dumbfounded seconds he nearly drove them into the side of a tenement hall, Tommy winced again as he jerked the wheel back to right them, Arthur was muttering under his breath in the backseat. 

“Er- Nah, mate, Arthur might-,” John replied, still trying to figure out how a person was meant to get shot in the back, tell his brothers to drive him to Birmingham like the reaper was on their tail, down laudanum and then follow it with snow and expect to be halfway coherent halfway to the city, 

“Arthur!” Tommy was saying, leaning around the seat to face his brother, who was rocking gently from side to side, looking, for the moment, both completely content and completely vacant, Tommy tapped his hand against Arthur’s cheek, his back was leaving shiny wet streaks across the black leather of the car that caught in the orange lamplights as they passed under them, “Arthur! Oy! Pass me some snow!” 

“Who?” Arthur asked, with a slight shake of his head, Tommy’s eye roll was interrupted was another bump sent them all bouncing up in the seats, Arthur’s head hit the ceiling and Tommy groaned, his knuckles white against the door handle. 

“Give me your fucking snow, Arthur-,” 

“Ahhh! Cocaine! I gotcha bruva, hmm? Don’t you worry,” Arthur said, tapping his nose, Tommy’s eyes were squeezed closed, his good arm blindly trust out behind him at Arthur, with an open palm, 

“It’s going to be a long night, gentlemen,” he said, and John didn’t know whether or not to laugh or cry. Arthur confidently placed a rather hefty roll of pounds into Tommy’s hand, and John was incredibly surprised to see a brief, blood-streaked flash of teeth as he smiled. 

“That was a good try, man,” he said, and Arthur grinned back vacantly, John doubted he had the faintest what was going on, 

“Here,” Michael said, pulling out a little blue bottle from inside his tux. John looked at Tommy, trying to catch his eyes, but he was staring at Michael in the rearview, not speaking, but he didn’t need to. Michael set his jaw. 

“It’s half gone thanks to your fiancé, if you’re looking for victims to lecture,” he said, and there was that brief, suspended moment before Tommy responded when he was totally blank, where John couldn’t read him at all, when he couldn’t tell if his brother would snap back or evade completely, but he just ticked his fingers prompting, silently, as John careened around a bend. Michael handed him the bottle. 

“You’ll ‘ave to keep Tess off that shit for real, now,” John said, and Tommy’s brow creased. 

“Now what?” he asked, like he didn’t have a clue what John was talking about, and John was double-taking at him again, 

“Now she’s pregnant?” he responded, and Tommy froze for a moment and blew a breath out slow, pale eyes colorless in the dark. 

“Go faster, John boy,” was all he said, and John pressed his tongue against his teeth and his foot against the accelerator. 

  
  
  


6:24am 

  
  


“She’s asking for him,” Benson said heavily, sitting down with a bit of a sense of collapse beside Polly, who had pulled up a chair outside the room, giving in to Benson’s suggestion that she try to get some sleep, a prospect that had sounded too good to be true, and, unfortunately, had been. The dog’s teeth snapped behind her closed eyes. Fischer’s neck snapped, too. Over and over again. Based on the haunted look in Benson’s normally warm eyes, he was experiencing the same. 

“Of course she is,” Polly said, her voice scratching slightly with fatigue. 

“They’ll put her under again. They were hoping she would sleep,” he said, and Polly scoffed. 

“Doctors. Always ask about your wounds, but never about how you got them. It’s the wrong… perspective,” she said, trailing off slightly, her cheek resting in her palm. Benson scrubbed at his eyes. 

“So where the fuck is the king?” Benson asked, sounding harsh and irritated, and Polly peeled her eyes back open. 

“Protecting her,” she said, with a very halfhearted wave of her hand. “Protecting all of us.” 

Benson blinked at her, looked around, as if to say, _for all the good it’s done._

“He’s checking the rat traps?” he asked, and he really _was_ a bright boy, wasn’t he? Much smarter than he looked. 

“He doesn’t need to. That man’s mind is a steel trap of its own.” 

“He knew who it was.” 

“He did,” Polly said, “or he does by now.” It was nice, really, to be able to talk about these things to someone who wasn’t one of her nephews. She could not tell Michael. She did not want him involved. But they had taken him anyway, and if he came back with so much as a _scratch-,_

“He should be here,” Benson said, earnest, Polly wished, for a moment, that when she was younger she had fallen for a man like him. 

“He should, yes,” she agreed, because she did agree, and it was no use pretending. “And he should have given Fischer the apology he wanted, and he and the boys should have become blacksmiths apprentices or factory foremen instead of starting a razor gang, but good luck telling _him_ that.” 

Benson grunted, the brevity of his expression unchanging. They were silent for an amount of time Polly couldn’t distinguish, the sun was rising past the outlines of the buildings in the window at the end of the hall. 

“If that baby dies…,” Benson said, lowly, “that’ll be another mistake on his shoulders.” 

“You know, I told her to get rid of it,” Polly said, conversationally. “At first.” 

“Why?” Benson asked, and Polly shook her head, which was swimming with exhaustion. 

“I just have this feeling,” she said, her confession wispy like breath. “Can’t explain it. Can’t shake it.”

“What feeling?” 

“That baby will break his heart,” Polly said, then, “if it dies, I suppose I’ll have been right.”

  
  


2:14am 

A woman answered Arthur’s fist pounding on the door, her face white and dressing gown pulled tight around her. 

“What do you want?” she said, half anger and half fear, and Tommy told her, as cool as a rushing river,

“Ma’am, we are the Peaky Blinders, and we’re looking for your husband.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is the last one in this book!!! it is aptly named when the party's over. the next book is called beLIEve
> 
> did u guys see the thing about them bringing a new female character onto s6? ironically i am doing something similar in the next book, WONDER WHO IT IS
> 
> Also, the moodboard for Rai(g)n is done, and dope. our babies benson and lucy make an appearance in it, see if you can spot them!! here u go: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/raign/
> 
> ALL MY LOVE <3 <3 <3


	36. when the party's over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you know I'm no good for you?  
> I've learned to lose, you can't afford to  
> Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin'  
> But nothing ever stops you leavin' 
> 
> Quiet when I'm coming home, and I'm on my own  
> I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that 
> 
> Don't you know too much already?  
> I'll only hurt you if you let me  
> Call me friend but keep me closer (call me back)  
> And I'll call you when the party's over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for sxrebonds, today, tomorrow, always. happy birthday, my dear <3

2:27am 

The doorman hadn’t been home. Billy Stevenson, the brothers had called him, and Michael didn’t think that Tommy would have left Tessa in a hospital he likely should’ve been checking himself into in order to have a friendly nighttime chat. And the brothers had brought _him_. Mostly because Tommy was too paranoid to leave Tessa without what he considered “real” protection, so he had left Benson behind, but Michael had seized his chance anyway. He had done well with the Perish, John had even said as much, and the walk to the traitor’s front door filled him with a feeling like buzzing bees-,

But then Billy wasn’t there, and Tommy was storming back down the alley and swerving into a phone booth like this was exactly how he had expected things to go, the fuzzy orange light from inside the booth spilling liquid light onto the wet ground. Arthur and John shared a cigar that John had pulled from his pocket as Tommy spoke, everyone he dialed seemed to be picking up their phones on the first ring despite the late hour, and Michael mused that perhaps his cousin’s paranoia did pay off, on occasion. The rain was still coming down in a steady stream like it had been for hours, Birmingham’s now-familiar grey skies lightened at the edges by the stubborn, foggy smoke from the factories, billowing even now, night shift workers pumping the billowing clouds of ash into the sky. Billy the doorman had run, and Michael was afraid he would never get his chance. 

“-And a mile wide surveillance of Ignatius Hospital-,” Tommy was saying, “Get all of our London coppers on the docks, he’ll be headed overseas, ask Joshua- yes, Joshua, the company lawyer- ask him if he’s had anyone come to him to have papers made in the last three weeks-,” 

The roll of his voice blended into the thunder overhead, Michael scooted farther under the metal awning of the building they stood beside, the red glow of the cigar lighting up the brother’s faces briefly, Arthur gruff and serious, John deceptively cherubial. Tommy said, 

“Find him, and I’ll give you two thousand pound,” and hung up with a slam, the glass of the phone booth rattling in its red frame. He breathed out once, quickly, his shoulders rising and falling with a jerk, the shaved back of his skull bowed. Then he turned and faced them, already speaking, already walking away. 

“Come on,” he said, “Arrow House.” 

“Tom, shouldn’t we be- wiv Tessa, right, or tracking Bil-,” 

“Did you get your bell wrung so fucking hard you went bloody deaf, Arthur?” Tommy snapped, and Arthur raised his hands in surrender. “Arrow House, now.” 

And so they went. 

  
  


8:37am

  
  


She did not want to be waking up. She knew it as it was happening, and she fought against it, to stay in the swirling darkness where there was nothing, there was nothing and yet somehow she still knew that she didn’t want to face whatever the opposite of _nothing_ was-, 

But it was no use. A voice was calling her, and would not stop, pulling her from the darkness like a rod reeling in a fish. 

“Tessa Reilly,” it was saying, and she blinked her eyes open. 

Edward Rockefeller sat in a chair beside the bed she lay in, the room brightened with crisp morning sunlight. His hands, pristine and unblemished, were folded over his knee in a way that suddenly, viscerally reminded her of von Stein, of his twisted grin, of the seeping, lurking weight of his eyes, and she flinched back, lifted her hand to her hip for her gun, 

But it was not there, and the felt light and dizzy and sick and heavy all at once, and she couldn’t scream or speak, 

“It’s all right,” Rockefeller said in the same calm, measured tone. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was told your fiance is on his way, and I knew that once he arrived I would not get another opportunity to speak to you.” 

Tessa was still trying to form words, but it was like she didn’t have a throat, didn’t have vocal chords. Rockefeller leaned idly back in the chair, observing her. 

“The nurses told me that you are not to speak. It is true that I have only just met you, so I hope you forgive my impertinence, but that struck me a rather lofty aspiration for you.” 

Tessa tried to muster up the saliva to spit at him, but her mouth was dry as cracked earth, so she just glared with all her might. The room was like liquid sloshing about when she moved her head. 

“In any case, I thought we might talk,” Rockefeller continued, as if the conversation wasn’t completely one-sided. “And I hope you will consider everything I have to say with the utmost attention, because I will only offer it once. Now, before you reject me outright, do me a great honor, and listen to my proposition.” 

And because she was mute and only half conscious and grasping at straws, she let him speak. 

10:41pm

Epiphanies are fickle, fleeting things, which always seem to occur at the wrong moment. All at once, for no real reason, she realized she knew the baby’s name, and then, in a bit of a backwards discovery, that if she knew what she wanted to name the baby, that must mean she knew she wanted to keep it, not just wanted to keep it but wanted to keep it safe. To keep _her_ safe. That she wanted it more than anything else in the world, actually, if only just. 

_There was a man in the flames like death himself, blood dripping down his chin and eyes like ice, a nihilist’s messiah with black magic in his voice and crackling at his fingertips and a crown of thorns-_

Again, always at the exact second you don’t want them to. 

3:22am 

  
  


“Stay here,” Tommy had said, stepping from the car and lurching slightly as he did so, dirty dress shoes crackling as he landed on the gravel of Arrow House’s drive. 

“What the fuck’s he doing,” John mumbled under his breath, Arthur shrugged blearily, his forehead pressed against the Bentley’s window, watching Tommy’s form retreat into the house. There were four men stationed at the foyer, holding rifles, with the collars of their coats pulled up to protect against the weather. 

“He’ll prolly never fucking tell us,” Arthur muttered, “Reach into that compartment for me and get some ‘o that stuff he was drinkin’.”

“‘S not morphine, Arthur,” John warned, but did as he was bid, and Arthur went to snatch it. 

“Shouldn’t take that shit on the job,” Michael warned, and Arthur snorted. 

“Yeah? You the authority on that now, boy? Tommy does it, don’t he? And look at him, ‘e’s the fuckin’ boss. Give it here, John,” he said, John tossed him the bottle and Arthur halfway caught it, saying, “Fucking hell, the cheek,” under his breath as he bit down on the cork and yanked it out with his teeth and a small _pop_. John scoffed. 

“Everything you imagined, Michael?” he asked, staring out through the windows at the dark house, where a light had just flickered on in an upstairs room. Michael wondered whose it was, counted down who was left in the house, the reasons Tommy would have for talking with them, and felt a coil of dread slithering low in his stomach. 

8:40am

“I’m sure that, at the moment, you consider my offer to represent the deepest of betrayals, but I also think that part of you recognizes that it is indeed for the best for everyone involved that you accept,” Rockefeller was saying, she couldn’t have thought of a single word to use as a reply even if her throat didn’t feel as if it had been crushed under a horse’s hoof, it was tight, now, and burning, the soreness of a strained muscle plus an ache akin to the symptoms of fever. She thought there might have been bandages wrapped around it, she couldn’t really say, it was hard to distinguish what she was feeling and what she was thinking and she was thinking about blood and flames and _the snap of bones and a man screaming in pain_ \- “You have twenty-four hours from when I leave your presence to give me your answer. I understand that the difficulty of the choice I am presenting you-,” 

“I’m pregnant,” Tessa managed, very barely, because apparently he would never stop talking if left to his own devices. Her voice was weak and she felt horribly pathetic, horribly defenseless, he could kill her right then and she would hardly have been able to put up a fight. But Rockefeller just blinked, like this information did not surprise or bother him. 

“Are you?” he asked, mildly, like he knew, and she clenched her jaw. _He could kill her, right then_ \- for one blind, desperate moment, she wanted to ring her father, to ask him how much blood you could lose before you lost your baby too, how much could you lose before you lost everything, she did not respond. 

  
  


3:23am

  
  


Leonard was awake, which gave Tommy momentary pause, but then he thought _of bloody course he is,_ because that was just the way the night seemed committed to going for him. Constant disappointment. He mourned the loss of the opportunity to stand over the man’s bed and startle him into consciousness, maybe cause a minor heart attack. The bastard deserved it. 

Von Stein was still fucking alive, they had said, depending on what your definition of existence was. If it required being capable of eating, drinking, or pissing without aid, then he would be good as dead for a long while, or so Arthur had said to attempt to comfort Tommy, and he had wondered rather vaguely when he had become the sort where someone would tell him that he had sent a man to hospital for the rest of the year to try to _brighten his mood._ The worst part was that it hadn’t really worked. He wanted von Stein _dead._ He wanted to cut his cock off, stick it up his arse, and chuck the body into the cut as a warning. The blood rush had started to become rather dizzying, the overload of adrenaline making his limbs start to shake, the laudanum made the door frame sway slightly and he gripped it with fingers he had to pry apart to release from a fist in a steadying attempt, it did not help, nothing helped, he needed her he needed to get to her- 

Leonard looked up from his book, some ponderous medical tome that gave Tommy a headache just by looking at it. Looking at Leonard gave him a headache too, he should have gone ahead and taken some of the snow already. He had mixed shit before, he could figure it out, it’s about the ups and downs, you see, you just had to balance the- 

The old man was looking at him in a way that made him rather want to pull out a gun just to give him a real reason to make that shocked a face, before he remembered that he was drenched in blood like he had been hit with a hose of red paint. He granted the expression earned. He had been trying to document his injuries, (when and if he finally got to the hospital, they would want to know) but it had been useless, on account of him not being able to feel much of anything, really, so he had quickly given up. 

“Tessa?” Leonard said, and Tommy couldn’t turn the boil of his blood down to a simmer, couldn’t cool the trembling of his nerves. 

“Don’t say her name,” Tommy said, he had only put up with the prick for this long for her sake and it wasn’t any fucking use now that he had figured out the truth. Leonard’s eyes, Tessa’s eyes, shrank like a scope narrowing. 

“Is she alive?” he asked, and why was it that all selfish men inevitably had one singular redeeming quality that made it difficult to shoot them point blank? Ironic that Leonard’s and Tommy’s would likely be the same. Tommy had the uncomfortable thought that the reason he resented her father most was because of the things he resented about himself, and then he pulled out his gun anyway, just to touch it, her gun. He had things to do and the room was slipping. 

“She’s alive. She’s also pregnant, apparently.” Tommy responded, keeping his words casual enough to be cruel, edged enough to cut. Leonard balked and closed his book, and the petty victory was bitter but sharpened Tommy’s vision like a knife on a whetstone. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom, the bedroom in his house, where he had let the old man _sleep,_ and thought that it should have hurt to do, to move his shoulder, but it hadn’t, and wondered if he was in very deep shit and had just not realized it yet, like a man building castles out of quicksand. He couldn’t muster up the effort to care. 

“Yours?” Leonard asked, reaching for the spectacles on his bedside table. “Could be that reporter, what was his name. Fish?” 

“Mine. He’s dead, anyway,” Tommy said, his voice flat like monochrome, “Tessa killed him. Already ended me in a rather difficult situation because of that fact, too. She’s a handful, that one.” 

Leonard worked his jaw, their jaws were the same, too, the arc of Tessa’s was smoother, her chin smaller, but he could see the play off Leonard’s aging features even still. He wondered about her mother, what she had looked like. He wondered about her, in the hospital, if she was awake, if she was looking for him and not finding him there, and the thought made something that burned like acid travel up his throat. 

“You expect me to believe that?” her father asked him, Tommy’s hand twitched against the smooth wood of the door. 

“It’s not up to me whether you believe it. Depends on how much you actually know about her,” he said, and Leonard scoffed, the huff of breath sounding like her, like hers, fuck, she had better be breathing, 

“More than you ever will,” he said. Tommy stared. “Because I know what makes her happy. She loves lemons, did you know that?” he paused, Tommy didn’t respond because he didn’t, and he didn’t want to, and because he couldn’t, his head was thick and heavy and swirling, “Anything lemon. Anything sweet. She used to wear her hair in braids tied with blue ribbons. I still have them.” A wistful flash passed over his face, brief and poignant like pain, like staring down into a tiny grave, like he thought the girl he spoke of was gone instead of- 

Everything. She was everything, everywhere, and he had to get back to her. 

“She can sing and dance and play music, and she is not your murderous little toy.” Leonard laughed, but it was devoid of humor. “You think you’re in love because you’ve convinced her she shares your devils. But that isn’t _love,_ and when she finally realizes that you were never worthy of laying a _finger_ on her, you will be left alone with them once more.”

Tommy locked their eyes until Leonard blinked, and Tommy nodded very slowly. 

“Is that what you fear, Mr. Shelby?” the other man asked, and then Tommy’s head was shaking, and he was clearing his throat to say, 

“Yes.” But he did not know _why_ , he had meant to be silent, he had found that when others were right, it was best not to cue them in on it. It lost you leverage, cost you ground in the fight, and he had gone and done it anyway. But it was no matter. Leonard was not a threat, he never had been, just a misguided, selfish old man whose actions had consequences beyond anything he could have ever dreamed. And who may have been a little bit right.

“Why did the Perish want you?” Tommy asked, because the clock was ticking on the amount of time remaining where he would still be able to manage standing upright, and he knew it. “When you came to me in the Garrison, you asked for protection, for you and your daughter. Said they wanted you to support them.” 

Leonard’s eyes weren’t like hers, really. They were missing the burst of yellow at the center, the ring like an eclipse, Tommy hadn’t realized he had crossed the room before he was standing by the old man’s bed, and he was shocked at the amount of force it was taking to hold himself back- 

_‘S like a dam breaking,_ Arthur had said, _once you let go of the reins, there’s no getting them back again,_

 _SHE’S PREGNANT!_ Lucy had screeched, _and_ _he had been filled with it, flooded with it. Terror._

“But you already did, didn’t you?” Tommy asked, leaning over, the hand holding the Beretta making a dull thunk against the headboard, Leonard did not shrink back but Tommy could smell his fear like he could taste the iron in the blood still in his mouth. “Things got dark, you got scared. Then you tried to run, tried to enlist some soldiers of your own to get help you away with it. And they couldn’t have that. You knew too much. So they went after you, eh?” Now it was Tommy’s turn to chuckle, at the paleness of the other man’s face, bushy eyebrows and stupid, thoughtless mistakes. “Then me, because they’d heard about our conversation, although apparently not the part where I refused your offer. Which got me shot in an alley, for which you have my deepest thanks. And then they went after _her,_ like I knew they would _._ Maybe it _was_ to blackmail you, by then, but once they got what they wanted, they would’ve just killed her, teach you a lesson for the next time you thought you could escape their fucking facist little club. Do you know _that,_ Mr. Reilly?” 

He pulled the hammer with his thumb, the safety was already off, he thought about how it was a good thing Tessa was right-handed, because she wouldn’t have been able to otherwise, he thought about her broken thumb and the bullet in her arm and the cuts from the necklace dripping down her chest and about how all of it, all of it was Leonard’s fucking fault, it had to be Leonard’s fault, because it couldn’t be his. 

“Old history,” Tommy said, instead of pulling the trigger, he wished Leonard was shaking, it would have been better, but the man had been held as a hostage, after all, “And something I would be willing to forgive. But then Ada _-”_ the trigger was so close, it was so easy, it would be so easy, “All I would’ve needed was his fucking name from you, and then I could have-,” he stopped, sucked in a breath. He had shot enough Reilly’s for the night. Leonard swallowed hard, Tommy ground his teeth. “Interesting that the Rockefellers knew of our plans, isn’t it? Considering their association with your mates. I wonder how many other families have deep enough pockets to fit Scotland Yard in them, eh? Not very many, I bet. And Billy? Was that you, as well?” he asked, and Leonard frowned in confusion, too quickly to have been faked. “No. Acting alone, then. Doesn’t matter. We’ll find him.” 

“I heard you were allowing Tessa to attend. When she didn’t make it to any of the safe houses, I called in a favor to the Rockefellers, to protect her. The way _you_ were meant to,” Leonard spat. “I am guilty of nothing.” 

“No?” Tommy asked, mildly. “Alright. Tell me this, then. How did you and the Rockefellers meet?” Leonard’s eyes burned with a silent fury, but he said nothing, his lips pressed into a stern line. “Not in a park, then, I imagine,” Tommy ticked his head. Leonard’s chest was heaving with anger. 

“Tessa will never know,” Tommy promised, his eyes wide and his tone serious. “Because you will never speak to her again. You will leave this house and this whole fucking country and every night you will lie awake thanking your lucky stars that I didn’t just take your life as payment for your fun little secrets.” 

“No,” Leonard whispered, his teeth were chattering, now, as if he was cold. Tommy made a mental promise that he didn’t care how much the old man loved his daughter, if he broke down into tears, Tommy would put a bullet in his brain and through his own headboard. “I won’t,” Leonard continued, instead, staring down at the gilded title on the closed cover of his book like it held all the secrets in the universe. “I have nothing to be thankful for, without her.” 

“Mm,” Tommy hummed, apathetically. “Pity. Should’ve thought of that before.” 

“I never meant it,” the man’s voice was aghast. “Von Stein invited me to a dinner, a gathering of intellectuals, you don’t under-,” 

“I don’t care,” Tommy said, he could hear the exhaustion creeping into his own voice and was powerless to stop it, the little blue bottle in his pocket calling his name like a slap to the face. He straightened with a jerk, away from the man’s face, and slid the gun back into the too-large holster. “You ever try to come near her again-,” 

“You’ll kill me?” Leonard spluttered, choking on a dismissive sound, like he wanted to feign courage, but courage, like whisky, burns differently going down if its made right, if its real. The thinly-veiled expression on Leonard’s face wouldn’t get a baby drunk if it drank him down in one go, just pale, watery mild. 

“I’ll tell Tessa the truth,” Tommy said, “And if she then asks me to kill you, well… Just between us, Leo, I’ll admit I’ve finally learnt better than to try to tell her ‘no’.” He turned, walked to the door, was grateful that he was not swaying as he did so like the room was. He looked back over his shoulder. 

“Oh, also,” he said, flippantly, “she’s Tessa Shelby, now. But please remember,” a raised finger, in warning, “that you’re not to speak it.”

He was walking away, when Leonard asked softly, 

“How did you know?” His voice barely carrying past the doorway into the wide hall. Tommy paused.

“Something your pal von Stein said,” he replied. “‘The beginning of a circle’. And everything fucking started with you.” And when Tommy slammed the door behind him, the bullet in his shoulder burned. 

  
  


8:45am 

  
  


“So,” Rockefeller said, smirking slightly. “How was the rest of your party?” 

“Got busted by coppers, like all the best ones do,” she muttered in reply, it made her throat scratch and her eyes water, she couldn’t really even remember the party, she didn’t _care,_ she wanted her family and she wanted them _safe,_ Rockefeller chuckled gently at her response and her blurry vision snapped to him. 

“Yes,” he said, “so I heard.” 

“You were the one who called the Yard,” Tessa said. She had woken on the floor, surrounded by sets of shiny black boots milling around her like strange little animals, Tommy’s voice shouting them all away, Tommy covered in- 

Rockefeller nodded, the distinguished pepper of gray at his temples and the silver spectacles on his face catching in the bright light through the window. 

“Thomas is coming?” She asked. Another nod. She didn’t even try to keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “Well, if you want to keep breathing, you won’t be here when he arrives. He’ll kill you for even stepping into this room.” 

She didn’t need a strong tone to convey her threat, because it wasn’t a threat, was it? _Threat_ left room for doubt, and there was none, and something told her Rockefeller knew that, but he just gave another thin-lipped smile, watching her. _Tommy was coming,_ and she both yearned to see him like she was being held underwater and he was the oxygen she could not breathe, and suddenly, haltingly unprepared, she did not know what to say to him, she did not know that to tell him, she did not know what to _do-_

She realized she had been staring down at her hands twisting in her lap, long, pale fingers that didn’t belong to her. Everything felt strange, even her own body. The nurses had tried to scrub the blood off, but it was still there, in the creases of her knuckles and the lines of her palms. Rockefeller was silent, observing her as she fluttered her fingers experimentally, holding them up to the light. They must have given her morphine. Of course they bloody had, getting off the snow was likely to be difficult enough- 

“Even in this state, you are still rather magnificent, aren’t you?” Rockefeller said, his voice so familiarly American, and Tessa wanted a cigarette, some white powder, anything to wake her up, but she couldn't even manage to shake her head. 

“Tommy’s coming,” she repeated, as if it was absolution, and in a way maybe it was. She might have sold her soul to the devil, but he took care of his own, _red blood blue eyes white teeth ripping into a throat-_ She let her eyes close again. She was already seeing it, anyway. 

“I am not concerned about Thomas Shelby,” Rockefeller said, and Tessa scoffed, which was a mistake and made her throat clench, wondering if Rockefeller would have felt differently if he had seen exactly what had occurred during the rest of the party, but then he added, “And you need not be anymore, either.” 

_“I’m not afraid of him,”_ she said, or she wanted to say, but _blood was dripping down his chin, a man screaming on the floor, she was with Tommy on a stage and he was-_ the words didn’t make it out so instead, she told another rather blatantly transparent lie, at least, a lie in the moment, 

“Maybe it’s me you should be concerned about,” she said, and Rockefeller made an agreeable face like he didn’t much doubt it. The room was spinning. 

“My concern for you is what led us here,” he said, evenly, “and is also the reason that you are still alive.” She blinked at him, hard, trying to squint her eyes into focus as if that would make his words any less ridiculous. 

“You can’t possibly believe I owe you some sort of _debt-?”_ Fuck, it hurt, it hurt to talk, it hurt to move, her arm was aching, when would it _stop-_ she didn’t even _know_ this man, what the fuck was he doing in her room,

“Oh, no.” Rockefeller stood in a smooth motion, he was taller than she remembered, _Where was Benson, where was Polly, where was_ Tommy- “you owe nothing to me, nor to anyone else. But I _do_ believe you owe a great deal to yourself. And to your… potential child.” Tessa flinched. He took a few steps across the room, shoes clacking against the tile, “Think about my offer.” 

His hand was on the brass handle, opening the door. _Tommy was coming,_ it was too soon, she didn’t know what to do-

“I can’t-,” Tessa said, choked up, tried again. “I can’t do what you’re asking. I can’t.” 

He did not turn, the back of his gray suit perfectly pressed and clean, _there was blood under her fingernails,_ she couldn’t stop staring at it. Rockefeller’s face was impassive, unlined despite the peppery flecks in his hair. 

“Then be sure you understand what happens next,” he said. “Because I can assure you that what is coming will make last night’s massacre look like a picnic, and the only person that can halt the path of the flood is you.” 

And he opened the door. 

  
  


3:57am 

Michael was sending a prayer to the dark heavens that Tommy would tell them they were staring at the house that night, and he would be able to get some fucking sleep, and John looked like he felt rather the same, staring out of the droplet-splattered car window through the black rain at the front door of the mansion with eyelids that kept flickering shut. 

Arthur was high as a kite, leaning to the front to participate in some finger painting using the blood that Tommy had left streaked on the seat. Michael had been to flapper parties that weren’t half as bizarre as his night had been, and he was still having trouble believing any of it was really happening at all. A fist pounded on the driver’s side window, and John jumped so hard he nearly hit his head on the roof. Michael hadn’t even seen Tommy leaving the house, somehow. John opened the door, getting rainwater dripping from the sleek black body onto the pristine interior. 

“133 Wallbourough Lane,” was all Tommy said, Michael hauled Arthur back by the neck of his tuxedo as Tommy came around the side of the car, his movements slow and jerky. The sound of the rain splattered against the roof, and grew louder from the outside as Tommy opened the passenger door. 

“What the fuck happened to him?” he asked, gesturing at his older brother, before even climbing in, he wasn’t wearing a cap and his dark hair was dripping water that ran red. Arthur was humming, swaying, and trying to smoke one of Tommy’s unlit cigarettes. 

“Arthur found himself a bit of refreshment,” Michael said, and Tommy’s stare slid to John with a perfectly executed look of irritation. John shrugged. 

“What?” he said, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder and pulling a lighter out of his pocket to hand to him. 

“We’re working,” Tommy said, shortly, Michael felt a surge of satisfaction. 

“ _You’re_ working,” John pointed out. “The rest of us don’t know fuck all. Only reason I didn’t take some too is ‘cause I’m driving.” 

“No, you’re not,” Tommy said, finally pulling himself into the car and grunting in pain as he did so. Michael didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled by his cousin’s tenacity. “Michael’s driving. Switch with John, Michael,” he said, and Michael tucked away his grin from where John’s protests could see it. Tommy pulled out his pocketwatch. 

“Hurry up, boys, newspaper opens at eight,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something, and Michael pressed the accelerator of the Bugatti until the gravel underneath them sprayed. 

  
  


9:00am 

  
  


Benson knew that Mr. Shelby was approaching because of the looks on the faces of everyone in the hall, nurses, doctors, patients, all scrambling to get out of an approaching someone’s way, like chickens scattering before a wolf. He could hardly blame them on an ordinary day, and that was before he had seen Thomas accompanied by two of his brothers, plus Michael, all walking shoulder to shoulder and taking up nearly the entire hall as they did so. Michael looked like hell and the rest of them were worse. Thomas might have had a black eye or two, but there was so much dried blood on his face it was hard to tell, smudged like it had gotten wet and then dried again, and when the door to Tessa’s room opened and Edward Rockefeller stepped through, the older man was met by four faces all wearing the same mutinous expression, five sets of eyes locking on him. Except for Thomas, who took in his presence with a look like he had just landed ankle deep in horse shit, and then only ticked his head slightly, wordlessly, to the brother on his right, and Arthur charged forward and had Rockefeller knocking against a wall, choking him off with his forearm, before Benson could even blink. A nurse shrieked. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Thomas asked, sounding like he had run out of patience a full twenty four hours ago, Arthur’s lip was curled in a snarl. Rockefeller _tsked._

“I brought Miss Reilly flowers,” he said, in a tone that seemed shockingly even for the amount of pressure Arthur was putting on his throat. Thomas made an exceptionally taken aback face, like he was having trouble convincing himself he had heard correctly and thought perhaps Rockefeller was attempting to make some sort of joke. 

“You brought flowers to his fucking woman? Are you fucking mental?” It was the closest Benson had ever heard John sound to the young men on the Birmingham streets, covered in coal and heavy accents and bruises from bare-knuckled fights, and it was odd to think of Thomas as having ever been one of them. But those boys wore razors in their caps, now, and Benson was intimately aware of where all the blood on Thomas had come from, so he flicked the scalpel he had grabbed off a passing cart across his thumb in his pocket, brushing it back and forth, hoping he had one good fight left in him for the day. 

“I thought someone ought to,” Rockefeller said, Thomas sneered in the way he did that made it obvious his time was being wasted. 

“Get the fuck out,” he said, Arthur dropped his arm and Rockefeller reached up to rub his neck but Arthur shoved him forward. 

“Careful, Blinder,” Rockefeller said. “You break it, you buy it. And you can hardly afford me.” And as he strode back down the hall of silent onlookers, Benson turned to Thomas and swung. 

  
  


9:01am 

  
  


Tommy jerked his head to the side reflexively, which John could have predicted. He had never seen someone land the first blow on Tommy unless he let them, or they had snuck up on him. From the look of surprise on Tommy’s face, Benson may as well have done so, his second, slightly less formidable punch landing squarely across Tommy’s cheekbone. 

“OI! WHAT THE _FUCK’RE_ YOU DOING-,” Arthur was bellowing, a nurse wheeling a patient had her hands covering her mouth, Tommy staggered backwards, hitting a rounds cart with a loud clatter of silver instruments falling to the floor, Arthur was holding Benson and struggling to do it. 

“Your _plan,”_ Benson shouted, John would really never have guessed he was capable of even an above-normal decibel of speech, and found himself rather proud, “was to _SHOOT HER?”_

Tommy looked like death would have been a blissful escape from the night he was having, if it even counted as night, anymore, John’s eyes were stinging from exhaustion, and he had fallen asleep while Michael drove them home. Tommy drug a dirty hand down his face, streaked with brown dirt and brown blood. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, then _snapped_ like a brittle bone, “ALRIGHT! Next person who even so much as fucking _speaks_ to me gets to use a bedpan for the rest of their miserable-,” 

“Tommy,” said a quiet voice from the door that none of them had noticed opening. Tommy fell silent. Tessa did not look like she should be standing. John was pretty sure she wasn’t meant to be standing. The expression on his brother’s face when he turned and saw her was so raw it was almost difficult to witness, like the glow of the sun, like a ribcage getting torn open. Tommy took three steps forward, lifted her face in his palms as if checking for complete, total, tangible proof, John could see his fingers shaking against the abnormally pale, even for her, color of her cheeks. 

“You should be resting,” he said, and she raised her eyebrows, glancing at the new cut from Benson’s ring under his eye, dripping bright red into various other shades of it, the upended cart obscuring the trafficked hallway. 

“Benny clocked ‘im!” John said, unable to help himself. It was a bit like pushing a kid into a pool- he felt bad, sure, but it was worth it for the dirty look Benson shot him alone. Tessa nearly smiled, but then she swayed suddenly, her eyes flickering like the headlights of a dying car, Tommy caught her in his arms with a grunt of pain and a wince. Arthur hurried forward. 

“I got ‘er, Tom, I got ‘er,” he said, but Tommy snapped, “No,” so quickly he reminded John of the rabid dog. 

“She’s mine,” Tommy said, voice full of the control and authority his shaky limbs were lacking, and he turned and carried her back into the room, slamming the door closed with his foot as he did so. 

  
  


4:22pm 

  
  


Polly and the brothers had gone to Tommy’s flat, with promises to return with food and clothes, neither of which Benson thought they would be very lucky finding, leaving Michael and Benson outside Tessa’s door. Footsteps, more timid than a nurse, startled Benson’s attention up from where he had been staring at his feet. But she wasn’t looking at him. 

“Mrs. Gray doesn’t want you here, you know,” he said to the black back of Lucy’s head. She didn’t turn, staring through the window of the door to the room. 

“I saw her leave,” Lucy said. “I wanted to come back. Say goodbye. I have a ship to catch in an hour.” 

Benson chewed on his lip. 

“He won’t let me in,” she stated, dark gaze still trained on the door, and Benson shook his head in affirmation. Lucy sighed slightly. Her eyes were red. 

“Sorry,” Benson said, because he felt he owed it to her. “I would, it’s just- I’ve already pissed him off today, and, you know. Trying to keep my eyes.” 

“I understand,” Lucy said. Despite the working-class burr, her voice was soft and sweet. She was still looking through the window. “They’re a handsome couple,” she said, suddenly, firmly. And then, much less so firmly, after a few seconds of slowly trickling silence where neither of them did anything but blink and breathe, she said, “You know, I've always wanted someone to love _me_ like that.” 

“Yeah,” Benson agreed, standing so that he could see what she was referencing. Through the window, Tessa was curled on Thomas’ chest, a hand clutching the front of his destroyed tuxedo, both of their eyes were closed and their breathing even. “Me, too.” 

Lucy shot him a look that he ignored, trying to seem oblivious. She hummed. 

“Well, good-bye, Benson. Thanks for the wild night,” she said, tearing her gaze away. “Tell Tessa to name the baby after me, and tell Polly she’s a righteous bitch.” 

“I won’t do either of those things,” Benson promised, and Lucy stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. 

“Keep her safe, then,” she amended, and he told her, 

“That one I can guarantee.” And when she smiled, somehow, even her missing front tooth looked rather endearing. 

“And yourself, as well,” she told him, and he gave her a small wave, and then she was gone. 

  
  


6:35pm 

  
  


“Tommy,” she said, but he wasn’t there. Perhaps she had dreamed him. Perhaps she had dreamed all of it, and she would wake in her bedroom at Addison Manor, in her bed with gold silk sheets, with nothing before her but a life she had no interest in. For a moment, it was as if she had. A familiar voice was speaking to her, a voice from the past. 

“Miss Tessa? Miss Tessa, very sorry ta wake ya, dear, but’choo really oucht to have a bite-,” the voice was saying. It was a comforting sort of voice, it sounded like her nanny had, and somehow not at all. The maternal element, Tessa thought. Something you could hear and yet wasn’t a sound. 

_Tessa,_ another voice said, deeper, ringing like a bell- 

She must have been asking for him. Her eyes opened, and he wasn’t there. 

“Tommy-,” she said, sitting up, the bells were growing louder, the sound expanding, droning, buzzing like wings, like the low _zzzzzzzwwwwwwpppp_ of a plane- 

It stopped. Her chest was heaving, her breaths coming in gasps. Missy stood at the side of her bed with her hand partially outstretched, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Tessa waited for the panting to subside, the panic, the feeling of her blood running crystal like ice through her veins, like snow. Missy was looking at her. She could feel it. She mastered her expression, and turned to meet the nurse’s stare, preparing herself. The pity in Missy’s brown eyes still struck her like a polo ball to the gut. Tessa searched for something to say but couldn’t even place how it was that she felt, so she came up short, and her throat was stinging horribly anyway. 

“Well,” Missy said, after a rather uncomfortable stretch of silence. “I suppose ‘oo know ‘oo he ‘ees, now", she said, half humor and half pain, and Tessa fell back down onto the pillows, letting the pain melt into her. 

“Yes,” she whispered. _He was rising from a body on the floor, fingers dripping scarlet,_ “I suppose I do.” 

If she had heard, Missy gave no answer. 

  
  


8:10pm 

  
  


When Tessa woke again, the day was gone, but Tommy was there, wearing a shirt that didn’t fit him right and was an odd, off-white color, and black dress trousers so stained with dirt and ash they looked a dusty gray. She had the feeling he had been watching her, but in a distant way, like he was thinking of other things as he did it. She had grown used to the far-off look in his ghost eyes, haunted and hollowed, but would never be used to the way the energy in the room changed when he snapped to, noticing her awake. She desperately wanted him to speak first and knew that he would not, just crossed his legs, and it looked like it hurt him to do so, which made her feel tense, like her body was sympathizing as well as her heart. 

“Did you throw away my flowers?” she asked him, just to tease, just for one more moment. Always one more moment. The corner of his lip twitched. 

“Yep,” he said, pulling out a cigarette case that she didn’t recognize. “And got you better ones.” 

“That so?” Tessa asked, trying to move her head to try and see them and realizing she was better off lying still. Everything ached and throbbed and protested, and with every breath she was begging _please please please._ “You do choose the strangest times to become chivalrous.” 

“Spontaneity is part of me charm,” Tommy said, his plush lips pulling a millimeter further, and she wanted to try to laugh but instead she choked on a dry sob, which caught in her torn throat, like inside her there was only sand and tumbleweeds. His brow furrowed. He said her name, started forwards.

“Love, it’s alright, you’re alright, yeah?” he told her, but she was marveling at the gentleness of his hands as he brushed his fingers against her wrist, cool against her pulse, some of the blood had been wiped from his face hastily as if by a cloth and she felt like she was spinning down a drain into darkness, into black fog. _Red blood dripped from his lips-_ she pulled her hand back. “Tess,” he said, her name was colored by a slight frown, “it’s alright. Please don’t cry,” and as if she was a genie and he had made a wish, the few tears that escaped were the only ones she allowed. Like there was a button she just had to push to make it stop. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to never start at all, the breaking of his heart, but she said, 

“Tommy,” and something in her voice made him pull up short. For a moment, an incredibly selfish moment, she wished she had gotten shot in the chest. It would have hurt less. “Tommy... The baby is gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay just this once im not going to let you yell at me (yet).  
> Until next time.  
> Love you all more than you'll ever know <3 xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> EXTRA STUFF WOOOO: 
> 
> Playlist for this book:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UgJilzeGBskaAYxlKyxzH
> 
> Tommy, Tessa, and the brothers:  
> Tommy- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Bf2DwJKLnEXHtDcPrJOnx  
> Tessa- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sojtflOAcPMLxBfPNe4xb  
> Peaky Boys- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7nwTXhZf3GoZ8AeMPNtTlm
> 
> Moodboards: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/preying/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/evol/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/broken/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/raign/
> 
> and you can hit me up on tumblr whenever to say whatever, its 3xc3lsior !!! would loveee to hear from u guys
> 
> adore you!!! and, as always, thank you endlessly for your support xoxo


End file.
